by M.T. Caldor
CHAPTER 1.
CHAPTER 1.
The listener, a woman a little past middle life, was dressed in widow's weeds that, also a little rusty, matched appropriately the sad, worn face, the wistful, dreary eyes.
She was sitting with her hands clasped over the work, which had fallen away from her listless needle, staring off hopelessly toward the frowning sky.
The opening door and "Oh, mamma!" wrought a transformation almost as magical as the fairy surprise of the stage. It was like pouring into the previous silence the delicious melody of wild-wood songsters, such as sing their mad joy to the flowers and the sun from very exuberance of bliss. It was like sweeping off the dismal clouds of that gray March sky and letting down the golden glow and blue glory of a smiling June upon the shivering earth.
So fresh and glad and full of cheery hope and youthful energy was the musical voice—so sunny and brightening was the gay smile, the kindling glance of the bright blue eyes— the shabby, forlorn room really seemed to brightened as he stepped into it.
Mrs. Orton smiled before she sighed—an unusual circumstance in her case.
"Why, Florry, what is it?" she said. "You bring a whiff of fresh air as invigorating as a sea-breeze in August. What have you seen, or heard, or imagined? If it is anything cheery, I was never more in need of it than now.
The girl had been quickly but noiselessly removing her outdoor wraps, hanging them away in the little wardrobe that stood in one corner of the room. She came now and sank down softly upon the ottoman before her mother, and crossed her arms upon the latter's lap.
"You have been growing dismal, darling mamma, while I have been away. That is very wrong of you. I have disposed of the work, and I am promised some more. That is something, isn't it? And I'm glad to have it—for I am a little ashamed of my enthusiasm about the other. Mamma, I met Mrs. Yerrington at the store, and she was very kind. And—she gave me an invitation to a party at her house—an invitation for Ross and myself."
"A party! Oh, Florence, what will you wear? Mr poor darling, I am afraid it is impossible," sighed the mother.
"Oh, but that is the best of it! To think I can have the treat once more with no cruel debt to poison all it sweet. Don't look so grieved, darlingest mother. It's all beautiful—the whole of it, trust me it is. I am wild enough to dance before you this minute."
"I think you must be a little wild child. Will you wear that threadbare serge? No, no. I can't consent to that—you ought to shine in silk and satin. It will be wiser for you to stay at home."
The girl caught up the thin, trembling hands and kissed them fondly.
"Oh, unbeliever, didn't I say it was all right? It is to be an old folks' party. The antique costumes are the only admissible ones. And now isn't the old attic-trunk going to be fairy grandmother to this Cinderella? Don't you know grandmother's famous brocade? Shan't I be au fait in those dear little quaint sleeves, and that elegantly wrought bodice? I'll warrant there won't be its equal there. And Ross can wear grand-father's faded ruffles, knee-buckles and all. If the occasion were fitted especially to our needs it couldn't be more feasible."
The mother drew a long, low sigh of relief.
"I really believe it will be practicable."
The daughter kissed her again and again, and then went whirling lightly about the room.
"It will be a grand affair. There is no questions of that. The Yerringtons make success assured always. Oh, how refreshing it will be to enjoy a party once more!"
"Now you betray how much you have felt the deprivation, Florence," said the mother, watching her with wistful eyes, into which the tears would brim despite her best efforts. "Darling, I am afraid you have hidden away a good many sorrows from your mother."
"What a fertile imagination somebody always has!" chided the daughter. "But you may make sure that I shall have a treat of unalloyed pleasure now. So, no dismal forbodings, please. I am like a silly child having its holiday."
Mrs. Orton looked at her through brimming tears; but she suddenly smiled with a look of new bravery, and catching up a letter which all the while had lain in her lap, hidden by the neglected work, she slipped it into her pocket, murmuring, under her breath:
"No; she shall have nothing to alloy her pleasure. I can hide it a little longer that Ross has lost his situation."
"And now may I take the key and bring forth the hidden treasures?" asked Florence. "You know I have always been so proud of these sole relics of the ancient grandeur of our house. You used to tell the story over my pillow, and talk me into strange visions of courtly scenes. How thankful I am we resisted the old dealer's paltry offer for the 'old duds,' as he chose to call them. They were worn at the famous Lafayette ball. Dear, dear! if they could only talk, what stories they could tell! Ah, here is Ross! Oh, Ross, such fine doings as are before us."
And she ran gaily toward the slender youth of eighteen years, who came slowly and dejectedly into the apartment at that moment.
"Fine doings, Florry? I can't call them so," began he, in answer.
But his mother suddenly swooped forward and seized his hat.
"Let me take your hat, Ross. The band wants stitching." And she gave him a swift look of warning and laid her finger on her lip, before she said, carelessly, "Florry is planning a famous treat, and we are politely requested not to mar her enjoyment by any idle forebodings or dismal stories. Don't you see? Now, tell him about it, Florry." The fair young girl was nothing loath, and presently the contents of the dusty attic chest were transferred to the family room, and the brother and sister were laughing over the quaint old garments and admiring their richness with all the lightheartedness of buoyant youth.
The mother sat quietly watching them, with a far-off, dreamy look in her eyes.
"How many times I have heard my grandmother tell the story!" she said, slowly. "It was a memorable occasion, and the Dillinghams were among the first of the gentry in the country to be called upon in getting up the ball. But it was the beginning also of their sorrows. I can see her now shaking her head drearily while she said it. From that hour their fortunes were on the decline. It was at this ball, in that very dress, Florry, that she gave my grandfather her betrothal vow."
"Ah!"' said the girl, holding out the still lovely and dainty blue-and-silver brocade, "do you suppose the consciousness will thrill through me when I wear it? Somebody ought to propose to me. Who knows, Ross, but somebody will? Mamma, what shall I answer?"
But her mother's eyes were riveted upon the garment, and she went on, dreamily:
"How choicely they were kept! Grandmother would touch them as softy as if they were living things. It does almost seem as if the senseless cloth must creep and quiver with the knowledge that those self-same garments are to go together to another ball.
"Of course they will. To be sure they do!" laughed Florry. "Dear me, Ross, I believe they already bewitch me. I seem to be effervescing over with some secret cause of glee. If they began the misfortune of our race, who knows but now they will change the spell, and herald the dawn of better things? It's a long lane that has no turning; and ours has been rather long now, hasn't it? Do I look anything like grand-mother, I wonder? This ought to be rather becoming to me."
"She was a famous belle, and in those days that meant something more dangerous than the present article. There was a bitter feud came out of that night between the Dillinghams and another aristocratic family—what was the name?—oh, I remember! It was a Captain Percival, who persecuted her with his mad attentions, and she gave him his refusal there that night, and fairly maddened him with the show of her preference for your grandfather. The hot young men came to blows. There was a challenge, too; but it was someway prevented from execution. Percival swore a bitter revenge, and grand-mother sometimes thought he was the indirect cause of the gathering misfortunes that overtook my grandfather. But that could scarcely be, for the sorest of all was his uncle's death, which came that next day."
"Oh, yes," said Ross, "I remember that. It is told over so piteously in the old diary. His uncle brought him up as an adopted son, and always promised his great fortune to him. But he died, and it was all swallowed up in gifts to a distant relative by the old will—the only one to be found."
"The property is almost all intact now. It is worth several millions," said Mrs. Orton, dismally. "I never told you who possessed it, because I feared it might awaken bitter and envious thoughts in you."
"I think I have guessed, mamma," observed Florence, calmly. "I saw you looking at young Mr. Fitzgerald when he rode by the other day. But surely he is not to blame. It is unkind to feel any resentment. But what weird thoughts all this strange talk has conjured up! I am not sure but I shall feel like grandmother's ghost when I take this old brocade to another party."
"Young Fitzgerald is going, I'd wager a farm if I had one!" cried Ross, suddenly. "I heard him talking with Alfred Thorne about some famous old costume, which Thorne was warning him against wearing."
"Let him go," said Florence, a roseate flush stealing into her cheeks. "I shall be there in grandmother's brocade, as well dressed as himself, and you as fine a cavalier in grandfather's costume—the one that won grandmother's favor. Let him come!"
CHAPTER II.
There were wreathing flowers, and brilliant lights, and fair women, but it was something novel to exchange the stereotyped black-coated gentleman for the stately cavaliers who were filling the rooms, and adding new grace to the picturesque scene.
From the station at the head of the long drawing-room, the stately hostess smiled in gracious satisfaction upon each newcomer.
Two young men, one of them attired in an unmistakably genuine costume of "ye olden time," lingered a moment after the formal greeting.
"My dear Mrs. Yerrington, you have made a decided hit. See what scarcely repressed glee is shining on every face," said this latter gentleman. "As for myself, I am quite carried out of my studied nonchalance. Do you perceive the air 'to the manor born' of this suit of mine? My good aunt is horrified at me for dragging it forth from the cobwebs. But do you know that this dress danced at Lafayette's ball?"
"What! Captain Percival's suit! Didn't I hear—"
"Oh, yes; of course you did. And so has everybody else. A sort of curse has mysteriously hung over the garments, and no-body has ever dared to disturb them till my unsparing hand dragged them forth. Are they not fresh and handsome? And just think of the consciousness that goes with them! Could any hired costume take their place? Don't be surprised if you hear me talking treasonably, for these fine garments have Tory proclivities."
"That Captain Percival had a wild reputation. He was an unquiet, restless fellow. He left some fierce anathema against whoever touched that suit."
"I dare say. Ah—"
The youth paused abruptly, and, while the gay carelessness dropped away from his voice, asked, eagerly:
"Pray, can you tell me who are those two just crossing the archway? The lady's dress is very quaint and rich. I verily believe it belongs to the genuine past, like my own. And what a sweet face she has!"
Mrs. Yerrington gave one swift look, and a glance of sudden earnestness swept across her face.
"Wait here," said she, "till they come up to speak with me, and I will introduce you. It is odd enough."
"What is odd?" he asked. "What a sphinx look you have put on. Who are they?"
"I dare say you have never heard of them; but it is rather singular, certainly. My dear Dick, your dress proposed to that very dress the young lady wears on the night of the famous Lafayette ball. It was her grand-mother's, and—but here they come. Ah, Florry, dear, I am right glad to see you. How famously you two become the old costumes! Here has Mr. Fitzgerald been boasting of his as a genuine article. You must allow me to present him to you, and take down his conceit as soon as you please by proving that yours also danced at the Lafayette ball. Mr. Fitzgerald—Miss Orton; Mr. Ross Orton."
Mr. Fitzgerald asked himself the next moment if his imagination was at fault, of if there really was one single defiant glance shot toward him from under those long brown eyelashes?
Nevertheless, the next moment he had offered her his arm.
"Pray, Miss Orton, don't be cruel enough to refuse the dress the honor, even if the wearer has no claim. Let me take you to the promenade."
She stood a moment hesitating about her reply, as it was evident to him. Once she lifted the shyly drooping eyelid, and searched his face over, with a cold, proud light in the soft dark eye. Then she smiled, and blushed charmingly, and stammered:
"I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. I the dress bewitches me. I forgot myself and you, and was thinking— Certainly I will walk with you. Ross, dear, May Somers is over by the window. Bring her, and follow us."
"Have you heard anything about our dresses?!" he asked, eagerly.
"I know about mine, of course. It was my great-grandmother's, and was at the ball, as Mrs. Yerrington said."
"But—well, it was odd enough. She told me just now that, at the famous ball this dress of mine proposed to—why, of course, then—to your great-grandmother.'
He expected to see a show of girlish coquetry possibly, but certainly a merry smile of amusement. Instead, the light touch of the little hand on his arm fell suddenly away. The soft deep eyes dilated half with horror, the rosy mouth quivered into a ring of tremulous astonishment.
"It is the dress of—Captain Percival!"
She spoke slowly, in a tone of awe.
"Why, yes. I took a fancy to it. My friend Hal told me about it; that my aunt—his mother—wouldn't let him touch it, for fear of some malediction that had been handed down from generation to generation. The story piqued my desire, and I insisted on wearing it. And as the penalty falls only upon the sacrilegious wearer, she could not prevent me from trying it. I hope—I sincerely hope, it is not going to prejudice you against me."
"It certainly ought not," returned Florence, slowly; "but—but it is very strange and uncanny."
And a light shiver ran through the slender frame.
"Tell me the whole story—for, of course, there is a story," he said, eagerly.
"I don't know the whole—only that you —no, I don't mean you—I beg your pardon; I believe I am half-bewitched by wearing this costume of grandmother's; but your—dress —was refused that night by my dress."
She paused, but not to laugh, as he expected, so he checked his merry smile and said, gravely:
"Go on, please—there is more than that, of course, for that alone might be a very common circumstance then—and now."
"And you—the dress—Captain Percival I mean—swore a dreadful oath of vengeance."
"What a bad man! His reputation is none of the best, and I don't wonder. But it did no harm, I trust,' he said, eagerly, "to you—I mean to your grandmother. See, I am mixed up, too, and a bit bewitched—"
Her smile was very faint.
"I hope it was not his fault. But it has been the family superstition that misfortune came from that hour. She married my grand-father, but their fortunes declined steadily, and those who were once honored and prosperous died in obscurity and deprivation."
Her voice faltered in accent, and was very low, but its tones were sweetly melodious to the listening ear.
"I have half a mind to slip away and find another dress," he said, eagerly; "and I certainly shall, unless you promise not to identify it with the wearer. I am sure I am not your enemy."
Upon this Florence looked up with her own sunny smile.
"I am sure also that you never meant to be," she answered.
There was a hidden meaning of emphasis that puzzled him; but he let it pass.
"What strange happenings there are in this life of ours! What do you imagine they would have said or thought, could they have been told that these two dresses would meet again so many years after?"
"The three dresses," said Florence. "Ross is wearing grandfather's—the one that also proposed, and was not rejected."
And this time she smiled archly, looking so charmingly ingenuous that young Fitzgerald cried out, eagerly:
"I wonder will your brother change with me? I am sure I should be more comfortable in that one. I am decidedly out of conceit with this."
As he spoke he thrust his hand carelessly into an inner pocket, as was a habit of his when annoyed or embarrassed. A sharp cackle followed the movement.
"Why," said he, quickly, "there is a paper here! Do you think it can be the written declaration? Come with me into this alcove, and we will see. You have the right, if any one has, to investigate."
In another moment they were safe from the observation of the careless crowd.
And then, not without considerable difficulty, he drew forth, from its concealed position beneath the lining of the pocket, a long, thick, time-yellowed paper, with a red seal on the outside, still unbroken.
"Why," said young Fitzgerald, his eyes sparkling with interest, "this is getting romantic. It is evidently a solemn document. Are there any missing wills in your family?" And he turned his smiling glance toward her, to find a pale, wrapt face confronting the paper fiercely.
A few lines were scrawled across the back. He bent down hastily to read them, and started back.
"Why, the villain, indeed! Hear what is written:
"'John Dillingham has asked me to take this document to his lawyer. He gave it to me to-night when I went into his room to vent my rage at his nephew. He was afraid of his valet's carelessness, and he knew that I lodged in the next suite to the lawyer. (Later). Fate has played a strong card into my hand. Dillingham is found dead in bed the next morning. The will gives the property to Paul, no doubt. Let him get it if he can. Ah, ha! my revenge comes sooner than I thought.' Miss Orton, what do you make of that?"
She was flushing rosy-red now. How her eyes shone!
"I comprehend it all," she said, proudly. "It was the will that should have given my grandfather his rightful fortune. Two generations, and wellnigh a third, has died in trouble and sorrow for lack of it. He had, indeed, a terrible revenge."
"Dillingham—John Dillingham?" spoke Fitzgerald, slowly. "Why, it was he who left the large estate to my grandmother!"
"Yes; what a way we have wandered back among grandmothers and grandfathers!" she returned, with an odd laugh. "Pray, let us come down to realities. I think they are dancing without!"
"Your name is Orton?" repeated he, most discourteously ignoring her intimation of a wish to return to the throng without.
"My mother was the only child of Ross Dillingham. Pray, what will my brother Ross think has become of me?" she answered, hastily.
It was his turn to flush and stammer.
"Wait, please. Let me understand a little more clearly. This is a very important' paper, and must be cared for. There was a fate indeed that ordered these costumes forth from their hiding-places. Tell me, it is I who am now keeping your family out of their rightful fortune? Heaven hear me swear to you that all this is a new revelation—I never knew of your existence. But I think I was drawn toward you the first moment my eyes fell upon your face, and that was not to-night. I saw you, a week ago, down by the river, and I fished out your parasol for you. I dare say you have forgotten it, but I have dreamed about you ever since."
She stood with downcast eyes, blushing and trembling.
"You were too kind and gallant to be so easily forgotten. I—I recognised you to-night."
"Believe me, the will shall be righted as far as such things may be," he said, earnestly. "What a fortunate thing that I should be the one to find it—I who have usurped your rights in such utter ignorance! It was the hand of a kind Providence that led me to resist my aunt's entreaties so perversely—to insist upon wearing this odious suit to-night. Miss Florence, there must be some distant relationship, and I am a lonely fellow without father or mother, sister or brother. Do you think your mother could be prevailed upon to have pity upon me and to take me in?"
Florence stood there, blushing and smiling, not at all ungraciously. Suddenly she looked up with a dazzling smile.
"Oh, that delicious music! and it is so long since I have waltzed. Mightn't we put all this away and enjoy the ball while it lasts?"
"To be sure we may, and will. And in spite of the clothes—may I have the honor?"
And the next minute they were whirling gracefully into the circling waltzers.
Mrs. Yerrington watched them a moment, and smiled and thought:
"What a blessed solution of a cruel fate if it should happen as I dared to hope! And it really looks as if it might."
Later, young Fitzgerald brought a staid old judge to introduce to Miss Orton.
"He was my guardian, and is still my judge, you know," he explained. "I have been telling him of our discovery. We shall come to see your mother to-morrow. It may be a perplexing business, but it must be settled satisfactorily somehow. That is certainly a charming costume, Miss Florence; you are positively dazzling in it. Is it rude of me to beg for another waltz while the judge talks to your brother?"
"It does not strike me that way," replied she, gaily. "I am very happy to-night— that ought to help me to be bright as well as the costume."
"You must dislike to cast a look upon mine," he said, ruefully.
"On the contrary, I think it both handsome and becoming."
"Ah, Miss Florence, the judge and I have talked ourselves into a perfect snarl. I am half impelled to a bold move. Would you be very angry with me if I spoke out something that has dawned upon me as the most charming method of cutting the Gordian knot?"
"Not if you meant kindly, surely."
"If it were not for this odious dress," he murmured, uneasily.
"But the poor dress is not to blame. The wicked wearer was the enemy, and he has moldered away into dust. Believe me, I am too happy to-night to hold even an angry thought of him."
"Then, Miss Florence, might we not halve the property? I suppose justly my claim would count for half since my father doubled it. Might not your mother and Ross take one-half, and the other be left for you and—me?"
He could only see the tip of a rosy ear; a confused, undistinguishable murmur was all he could hear.
"I know it is very sudden—but the circumstances are peculiar, and I should not be more certain if I had known you a dozen year, if only you will try to—to—don't think me ridiculous—but—"
A little silvery ripple of laughter stole over the snowy handkerchief that was held closely to her lips.
"It is a little ridiculous—and I'm thinking about the dress again. I said I ought to have a proposal, but—"
"This is one, certainly; but the poor costume has been refused before. After all, I pity the costume, Miss Florence; it wasn't to blame for his shabby behavior."
"If it was, the present wearer has more than atoned," she said, eagerly, and then stopped abruptly, and was rosier than ever.
"You mean——"
"I don't know what I mean. But I don't wish to be unkind."
"And you will let me propose this happy solution to-morrow to your mother? Just think, then, all this wrongdoing will be of no account to those who are left. What is past is past, and cannot be undone. Besides, it was none of our doing. But, besides making me the happiest of men, this will settle everything so beautifully—if only you can—"
There was no chance for anything more, for Mrs. Yerrington came sweeping up.
"My dear young people, have the old costumes wrought any spell? You certainly look bewitched."
"A very potent one, my dear Mrs. Yerrington," returned the young man, eagerly. "Heaven bless you for ever for giving us this old-costume ball. I have discovered for the first time what a usurper of others' rights I have unconsciously been. Moreover, I have—"
"Discovered the rights themselves," echoed Florence. "Believe me, it is a silken peace I have made with mine enemy, Mrs. Yerrington."
"Drawn through a—ring?" she retorted, archly, expecting a merry repartee.
Instead, two meekly conscious faces confronted her. Then hers changed to earnestness.
"Give me credit for good wishes. It would be the most delightful consummation possible. I know you both, and can pronounce you worthy of each other. But it is the swiftest result one could ever dream of seeing. Truly, I think there is some enchantment abroad to-night."
"It is her grandmamma's brocade," laughed Fitzgerald. "Heaven bless it, and keep it another hundred years."
Warragul Guardian and Buln Buln and Narracan Shire Advocate, Thursday 21 October 1880, page 2
No comments:
Post a Comment