Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1913-01-14

~ A.O
little garden, with a sun-dial half bur.
led in blossoming vines, marking tht
hours on its bit Of velvet lawn. Cool
green shadows waved around it in tht
summer wind, and under its mossy
caves great plats of flowers were bloom.
ing A delightful, sleepy old place
quaint and portly to look upon, and
one instinctively knew, full of relics Of
dead and gone generations.
Miss Vann and her charge went uI
the gravel walk and lifted the brass
knocker-an antique dragon-head
shining like the sun. A servant an.
swered the summons, and conducted
the two up stair to an old, curious
room, with latticed windows-Eric
Saxe's studio, and he was there, await.
ing his sitter. >,
] How handsome the man looked, in his
loose coat Of black velvet, with his
dark, falling hair, and features chisele6
like an Antinous. AS he came forward
to receive his visitors a white heat
like lightning, swept his dreamy face.
Il did not expect this" he murmured
and his warm hand closed firmly upon
Bees. She lifted her blue eyes straight
to his.
Il came to thank you for the service
you did me yesterday" she answered
Miss Vann says that you saved my
life"
Don't mention it-no man living
could have done less, Miss Sardis.
hope you are quite recovered?"
| Certainly she is" said Miss Vann,
promptly. Let go her hand, Eric. She
will amuse herself by looking at your
pictures while am sitting. Remember,
will not have my portrait flattered in
the least. You must faithfully repro
duce all my ugliness-I am ugly, and
will not lose the distinction which 1t
gives me. 1t Is really the next thing to
being beautiful, you know. recall the
case Of the Princess Metternich, whom
l used to see in Paris few years ago.
Heavens what a face that woman
had; and yet how the Parisians adored
her!"
Eric Sake placed a quaint old chair
for Bee in the prettiest of the latticed
windows, where a cloud Of trumpet
flowers were swinging their crimson
horns in the wind. The house was very
still-a sleepy, delicious stiffness that
was a change indeed after the hustle Of
the avenues. From the beds of flowers
under the caves sweet odors were watt
ed to Bees nostrils; insects chirped in
the trumpet-vines, and soft wind
from the sea famed in and out OF the
open window.
Miss Vann threw off her outer gar
ments, and, chatting all the while, al
lowed Eric Sake to arrange her for her
| sitting. Bee took no part in their con-
versation, but, quiet as mouse, sat
curled up in her high chair and looked
around the room. The state of the stu
dio attested that Mr.. SAKE was far too
poor to pass his days at Newport in re-
creation only. Plainly he worked.
Against the wall near Bee leaned q
! newly completed picture which fixed
her attention instantly. 1t was a twi-
light scene in the Sea-island region Of
our southern coast-an abandoned
plantation lying upon a lonely creek.
with the mournful night falling darkly
over it. A group Of superb live oaks,
draped in long, gray, swinging moss,
stood like sentries over the ruins OF q
stately mansion on-house-some old-time
planters luxurious abode. In the back
ground arose the remnant of the ne
gro quarter, half lost in a tangle Of
orange trees. cat-briers, fig-trees and
palmetto-scrub. In the foreground, on
a reef of coon-oysters" which the low
tide had exposed to view in the salt
creek, one solitary heron sat disconso-
late-the only living thing in scene of
utter desolation and death.
| Bee looked at the picture in sort
of strange fascination. 1t saddened
and oppressed her. She glanced away
to Miss Vann. to the man at the easel,
to the green lawn and the delightful
old garden outside, but her eyes came
back to the canvas again in spite of
herself. Miss Vann's pampered pug,
Bijoy, leaped into her lap, and curled
down there in a fat, furry ball; Eric
Sake painted, and Miss Vann preserved
proper attitude, and so an hour pass
ed-a long, silent hour, but not an UNI
pleasant one.
BLESS me! is the child asleep?" cried
Miss Vann starting up, at last, with
yawn. Eric SAKE turned from his easel
and looked at Bee.
mo, not asleep" she said smiling,
but studying this scene. What is it-a
fancy -picture?"
1T is my home, Miss Sardis-my
BIRTH place"
She had suspected as much. She
looked from the canvas to the painter
with soft, pitiful eyes.
How sad!" she said; but you will
go back to it some time, perhaps, and
make the waste places blossom like the
rose"
mo, 1t is not likely. 1 left it long
ago to the beasts of the field and the
fowls of the air."
The sympathy in her eyes seemed
very sweet to him. He leaned a little
nearer to her, but drew back as Miss
Vann rustled up, ready to depart.
Waiting is dull work, is it not?" she
said to Bee. Have you a taste for
romance? Of course. What girl Of
seventeen has not? Eric must tell you
the story Of this room. 1t will amuse
you, dare say, and attract you here
again."
with that object in view," murmur-
ed Eric Sake, Il should be happy to
relate any number Of stories"
He turned his back on the picture of
his own desolated home, and, leaning
against the crimson -flowered easement,
looked down in Bees uplifted eyes, and
said:
This house is immensely old, you
know. and in the days Of the Revolu-
ton a young Jewess lived here-a
daughter of that peculiar people, few
of whom are now to be found in New
port. 1t was her misfortune to love an
officer of the French fieet-a person Of
distinction, Vice-Admiral and .Lieuten-
ant General Count d'Estaing. He burn
ed incense at her shrine while he re-
mained in Newport, and at this very
window where you now sit, 1t Is said
the handsome Jewess used to watch
and wait for him. One might fancy the
place stepped in her dead sighs and
tears"
You should paint picture Of her
here" cried Miss Wanna dark, state
ly, cleaning eyed beauty, like Rebecca
in Ivanhoe, and the fair, dashing
French commander, in his martial
splendor, lisping sweet nothings to her
under the vines"
Perhaps 1 will, when 1 have the leis-
ure. Well, the little romance had a
tragic end. The Jewess died broken
hearted-you will find her grave in the
Hebrew burying-grou at the junction
of Touro and Kay streets. D'Estaing
went back to France, and was guillo-
tined during the Reign of Terror. A
pretty bit of history, is 1t not?"
No" said Bee. with an involuntary
sigh, lit is too sad to be pretty"
lower true tales are always sad.
1t is only in fiction that all the crooked
paths are made straight"
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