It was down on the Altamaha. The Dugarres always spent the summers in their large, old-fashioned mansion, on their own plantation, coming out from Savannah in May and returning in November. It was a picturesque house, with its wide halls, its piazzas, and its white columns that a man's arms could not reach more than half around. It had withstood the changes of time, and war, and the passing away of several generations. It was a landmark of the old South, and though the row of cabins in the rear still had a few dusky occupants, they were farm-laborers, hired to work by the day.
The Dugarres were famous for their hospitality, and entertained guests from all parts of the union. An unusually large party lounged on the shady piazza one hot, languid summer afternoon, representing Charleston, Atlanta, and even New York, not to speak of the fair Savannahians, and of Valentine Dugarre, all the way from Brazil. It was too warm for exertion; all quiet amusements had flagged, and even conversation had become a stupid effort, when Edward Dugarre brought out a dusty old Century and read Stedman's poem "Hebe." It roused both the lazy and the meditative to lively comments, all agreeing in their condemnation of Fiorina's revenge, so summary and so terrible. Did I say all? There was one exception—Valentine Dugarre. But some of them looked upon her as half savage, because of her Brazilian birth and her perfectly frank way of speaking out her thoughts and feelings. The Dugarres themselves were half afraid of her and rejoiced when she became engaged to Frank Black, a handsome young Savannahian of good family but of rather weak, unstable nature. She had been sent up to them to have an American finish put to her education and manners; but alien blood flowed in her veins, and she had been worshiped and spoiled in her own home until she had become as imperious and exacting as princesses are supposed to be. She could do the rashest, most unheard-of things when enraged, or when in a generous mood—such, for instance, as taking a ring from her finger and giving it to a ragged beggar when he asked her for five cents. When scolded for it by her shocked aunt she impatiently exclaimed:
"Can't you see that he is starving? What real need have I for the thing? Let it go, if it can be the means of bringing him food and clothing. I do not care to be rich, to wear jewels, while others are perishing with hunger."
And that summer afternoon she sat among those people, listening in silence to all their comments, and waiting until the last to have her say about the matter.
She was an imperial-looking girl, dark, but with a faint, delicate bloom on her cheeks, and the color of a rose on her lips. Her eyes were not black but golden-brown, and her hair had the texture of silk. Her very dress seemed to set her apart from the other women, who clothed themselves according to the decrees of fashion. It was fine-woven yellow linen, its full loose folds girdled in about the waist with a broad band of silver, its sleeves open half way up, revealing beautiful rounded arms. She set at open defiance all forms and rules, and laughed contemptuously at the conventionalities of society.
"I quite approve of Fiorina's revenge," she said at last, "only I would have killed the woman also;" then she smiled with scornful contempt to see the blood forsaking Helen Lawrence's face. "Why do you turn pale, Miss Lawrence?" she asked, leaning toward her with a gleam of mockery in her eyes.
"I—because it is horrible to hear you talk so," said Miss Lawrence, quickly recovering herself, for she shrank, if Valentine did not, from a crossing of words, as it was known by all in the house that the young Brazilian was jealous of her.
"Val does not mean it," said Edward, soothingly.
"I do mean it. What right had she to come between them—to use all her smooth little ways and arts to make him faithless? Yes, by all means, Hebe should have feasted upon her first."
She glanced at her lover, but he was looking intently across the sunlit cotton-fields to the shining sweep of the river, apparently not in the least interested in the conversation. Then she looked around on the disapproving faces of the other women.
"You may all look shocked, but I am different from you only in the expression of my thoughts. There is an untamed savage in every heart, no matter how finely the owner of that heart may be civilized, how highly polished."
"There is also a spirit of divinity, Miss Dugarre," said Mark Livingston, the young Charleston lawyer, in his grave, calm voice.
"But in some unguarded moment, some crisis, the savage conquers all. It is easy to be good until one is deceived or thwarted."
"But what cause have you to talk like a disappointed, soured woman of the world, Valentine?" her cousin exclaimed, a little impatiently.
"Oh, none whatever, of course." But a note of bitterness thrilled her sweet voice, and her jealous eyes saw the glance Helen Lawrence exchanged with Frank Black. She bit her full under-lip, until the blood almost started.
"You believe, then, that the evil in human nature is stronger than the good?" said Livingston.
"I do; for is it not true that many a lifetime of noble deeds has been wrecked in a moment of passion, the man stripped of his goodness, as of a garment, leaving the naked savage, fierce, revengeful?"
"But if there are such instances, so we can as easily recall others, where men and women, in moments of supreme sorrow or danger, have so far risen above all personal feeling as to be willing, nay, eager, to help their worst enemies."
She turned to her lover, "What do you think, Frank?"
"That it is too warm for argument, and that Ed might have selected less tragical reading for our amusement."
He laughed a little as he spoke, to give a jesting turn to his words, and, rising, walked away into the hall. Valentine's eyes flashed with anger, but in a moment she rose and followed him into the cool, duskily shadowed library.
"Dearest, did I disgust you with my savage talk?"
"I do not like such sentiments from you, Valentine. It does not sound womanly, and those people criticise you severely enough as it is."
Her eyes darkened again; her lips curled.
"What do I care for their good opinion!"
"It is well for us to care for everybody's good opinion."
"Miss Lawrence has taught you that great and noble truth, has she? You have grown very critical of my speech and manners yourself since she came among us. Frank, Frank! what is it coming between us?" she cried, in sudden, piteous entreaty.
"Your jealous imagination, Valentine. A man does not like to be doubted, frowned upon, every time he speaks to, or looks at, another woman."
"Is that all? Tell me, on your honor."
"Yes," he said; but his eyes shifted under her eager gaze, and a slight flush rose to his face. But she was too anxious to believe him to heed such fine changes of expression.
"I am a miserable, jealous creature, all fire and wicked temper," she humbly acknowledged. "I have tormented you, I know; but unfortunately for me I love you with all my heart, instead of just a little bit of it, and it is a great strong heart, dearest, if it is wayward and untamed."
She leaned toward him with luminous eyes, her beauty softened, as sweet and gentle as that of any other woman. What man could resist her in such a mood? He raised her arms to his neck, and kissed her on lips and eyes.
"You love me, you do really love me?" she whispered.
"Love you! How can I help it, my princess?"
They had a little dance at Dugarre that night—a merry, informal party. A large number of young people came out from the neighboring town, the parlors were cleared, and Uncle 'Riah, the old white-haired fiddler, was called in to play for them. It was a moonless night, and to add a little to the picturesqueness of the fine old house and grounds the negroes built a great bonfire on the lawn. It threw its ruddy light afar under the trees, and a rain of glowing sparks fell here and there on the grass, and some even floated away on wreaths of pearly smoke over the roofs.
The ladies of the house were all in evening dress, but it was acknowledged that Valentine Dugarre and Helen Lawrence carried off the palm for beauty. Valentine appeared her loveliest and best. No sug............