At the Mercy of Tiberius | Page 9

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