It was a beautiful picture of a beautiful young woman, with radiant blue-gray eyes, golden hair rolled high on her proudly poised12 head, and lips ready to curve in happy laughter. A cluster of cream-white roses drooped13 against her bosom14, 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 belle15 and beauty in the days when the D'Esterres were rich, with plantations17 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 melancholy20; and, being a devout21 Catholic, entreated22 to be allowed to enter a convent and spend the remainder of her life in pious23 works; but her family refused. They permitted her to convert the dressing-room attached to her bedroom into an oratory24, 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 entreaties25, she promised to marry him.
The wedding was to take place on the plantation16, 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 whim26 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 withered27 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 lavishly28, but to no purpose. She had vanished forever.
Time and the fortunes of war had wrought29 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 mansion30 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 wreck31 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 bent32, his head white, almost, as snow. He possessed33 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 mighty34 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 exempted35 from all labor36; 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 usher37 them into the barer parlor38 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 delightfully39 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 rambling41 talk, and questioning him about my ill-fated grandaunt. Nearly all that I had ever learned of her history had been gleaned43 from his conversations. He would sit at the corner of the hearth44, bent forward in his chair, his wrinkled old hands folded on the knob of his walking stick, the firelight playing in uncertain, flickering45 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 spoke46 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 utterance47 of that superstitious belief countless48 times, but repetition could not rob it of its impressiveness. I ceased to shiver and feel as though my blood was curdling49, but I would cast an awed50, 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 apprehension51 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 animation52.
"But I don't want to wear that dress; indeed, I would rather stay at home than put it on!" I faltered53, ashamed, yet determined54 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 shuddered56: 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 leisurely57. A light burned in the lower hall, and Uncle Peter sat in his favorite chair dozing58. Did the rustle59 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 hue60 overspread his face—a convulsive trembling seized him.
"Great land! ef dar ain't Miss Euphemy now, done come at las'!" he muttered, hoarsely61. "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 'bout42 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' writ62 'im. Oh, yes, yes. Peter wus mighty young den11, 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 agitated63 by the mistake he had made in my identity to fully40 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 wrath64 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 groan65, 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 confession66 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 stammered67 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 embodied68 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 ballroom70, Mr. Vandala came to me.
"Miss D'Esterre, will you promenade71 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 exquisitely72 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 stigma73 of dishonor upon him."
"Unmerited, unmerited," I said, in a stifled74 tone.
"Even the girl he loved believed in his guilt19, 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, apparently75 not heeding77 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 disappearance78 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 agitation79 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 humble80 obscurity, apart from the world, while he had wealth, position—everything.
"I will sit down," I murmured, faintly.
My hand was quickly drawn81 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 recording82 all the occurrences of that evening, it is because every incident was so vividly83 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 piazza84. 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 descended85 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 drowsily86 in the tree above me, the river flowed between its low banks with gentle murmur69, 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 unfamiliar87 to me. It was luxurious88, but curiously89 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 costly90 gifts were scattered91 about. Candles, set in slender silver candlesticks, burned on the dressing-table.
Subdued92 sounds of life were borne faintly up from the lower part of the 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 passionate93, unutterable despair as the door closed, and in her uplifted eyes the anguish94 of death seemed to be mirrored.
"Oh, I cannot go through with this mockery, this loathed95 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 worthy96 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 glided97 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 shudder55, even when she passed softly through the room to another door, standing98 also ajar. She paused before it with her hand pressed upon her heart, looking into the room beyond. A handsome, haughty99 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 presumption100 right, and some day, when Euphemia is a happy wife, I will make restitution101. 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 softening102; 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 rending104 her, could only walk at her side in spirit, not in flesh.
"So they plotted—they deliberately105 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 superstitions106 and dark traditions surround it."
She opened a door, and entered an oratory. Wax lights burned on a small altar; the incense107 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 soften103 her.
"Mother of Christ, forgive them, and receive my poor broken spirit. Intercede108 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 luminous109 brightness, shone on one fair cheek, round uncovered arm and graceful110 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 hideous111 death! but no shrinking, no regret moved her. The knowledge of her father's treachery had decided112 her. She rose, reverently113 kissed the crucifix, and, returning to her room, began to make her preparations. She caressed114 the lilac gown, as she unlaced it to exchange it for the white satin and wedding veil. They should be her shroud10, 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 rustled115 softly, fell away from her to the floor in a shimmering heap, and—
When my friends found me I lay in the rustic116 chair unconscious, with the dew-wet mimosa drooping117 over me; but when I regained118 the power of rational thought and speech, it was after a week of delirious119 illness. The Magnoliaville physician said that it had been, coming on for some time, and was the result of overwrought nerves, aggravated120 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 ashen121 hue to his face.
"Yes, I saw her," I said, solemnly.
He groaned122.
"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 imploringly123. "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 heed76 Uncle Peter's moans and ejaculations, but, getting down on my knees, turned the key in the rusty124 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 intercepted125 by the crafty126 Daniel—papers bearing false witness to Herman Vandala's guilt, and last of all, a brief, remorseful127 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 inter18 de wrong han's."
There were footsteps on the garden walk, the doorway128 framed my mother's black-draped figure and pale, frightened face.
"Phemie, child, what are you doing?"
"Unearthing129 old secrets," I said.
Beyond her I saw Herman Vandala, and, sweeping130 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 innocence131 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 illuminated132, then only a charred133, 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 kinsman134 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."
The End
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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10
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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12
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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13
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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15
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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17
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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18
inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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19
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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20
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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21
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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22
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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24
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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25
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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26
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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27
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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28
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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29
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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30
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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31
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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32
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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33
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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34
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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35
exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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37
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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38
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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39
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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40
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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41
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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42
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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43
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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44
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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45
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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46
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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47
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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48
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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49
curdling
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| n.凝化v.（使）凝结( curdle的现在分词 ) | |
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50
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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52
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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53
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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54
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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55
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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56
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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57
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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58
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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59
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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60
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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61
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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62
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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63
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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64
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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65
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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66
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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67
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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69
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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70
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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71
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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72
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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73
stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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74
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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75
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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76
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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77
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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78
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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79
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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80
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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81
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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82
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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83
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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84
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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85
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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86
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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87
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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88
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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89
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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90
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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91
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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92
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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93
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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94
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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95
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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96
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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97
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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98
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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99
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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100
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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101
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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102
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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103
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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104
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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105
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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106
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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107
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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108
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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109
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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110
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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111
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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112
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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113
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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114
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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117
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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118
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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119
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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120
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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121
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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122
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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123
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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124
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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125
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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126
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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127
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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128
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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129
unearthing
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| 发掘或挖出某物( unearth的现在分词 )； 搜寻到某事物，发现并披露 | |
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130
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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131
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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132
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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133
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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134
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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