CHAPTER LVI.THE OLD TOWER CHAMBER.

It was my bridal morning. I sat within my own pretty chamber, for from the cottage that had been my first shelter, not from the mansion which was only my inheritance, I resolved that Irving should take his bride. For the first time in my life I was clad in pure white. No summer cloud was ever more soft and vapory than the flow of my robe. The bridal veil, crowned by a garland of pale blush roses, fell like a web of exquisite frost-work around me. Pearls gleamed like hail-stones amid the snow of this dress, and a single white rose-bud, hidden in moss, gathered its cloudiness over my bosom.

Cora and my blessed old bonne had done this fairy work, and I was not to see myself till the toilet was complete. At last they led me up to the mirror. As I looked in, a faint pang seized me, for the whiteness of my dress struck inward, and drifts of snow seemed crowding against my heart. A vague dread of some unseen presence brought the old shudder upon me. I looked around in chill apprehension for my mother’s face. As I turned, a gush of sunshine come through the pink and white window-curtains, flooding me from head to foot with its rosy glow. I felt the brightness and the warmth. For one instant it seemed to me that my mother’s soft eyes looked upon me through the floating haze. My heart swelled again. A smile sprang to my lips. The coldness had forever departed from my bosom. The chill of my mother’s death was quenched in the glory of my new life.

The sound of bells sweeping up through the beautiful morning came to my chamber, filling my soul with a sweet tranquillity.On this day began the calm of my life. I went forth garlanded with bridal roses, on which the dew still rested, and with old Turner by my side rode to the church along the road where the wedding of my father and the funeral of his bride had passed by me, a poor gipsy beggar, lying sick and dizzy, with returning life in the open field. I thought of all this with gentle sadness, but it could not reach the heaven in my heart. The iron thread had melted away from the gold of my destiny. The altar was graced with roses that made the air fragrant with their breath, as we knelt before it. Mr. Clark, that day appointed rector of Marston Court, clasped our hands together before it, and sent us forth into the beautiful eternity of our love.

Marston and Cora, the new lord and lady of Marston Court, stood by, regarding us with gentle affection, while lady Catherine, yielding to her own interests, but half reconciled at heart, looked down in sovereign pride on Mr. Turner, from whose hands her high-born son was willing to receive his bride, for who else had the right to give me away?

As we turned from the altar, I saw, at the lower end of the church, the dark face of Chaleco. He was looking at me with a wild, mournful expression, that seemed more sombre from the shadows in which he stood. He answered my smile, which invited him to approach, with a moody wave of the head; but as we went down the aisle, he came toward us.

“Zana,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “if these people wrong you, if in all things they do not regard Aurora’s child as a queen, send the ruby ear-rings to Chaleco. During a few months he will be with his people, and even after he is gone the man or woman who offends you shall feel their vengeance.”

“Oh, there will be no need,” I answered, regarding my husband with a heart swell; “but for yourself, Chaleco, my more than friend, for your people—yours and mine, count—remember that a portion of all the wealth you have won for us must each year go to them.”

The gipsy count grasped my hand hard, his eyes sparkled, heuttered a wild blessing in Rommany, and left the church before we could urge him to join us at Greenhurst.

Amid the mellow chime of bells that filled the air with rejoicings—along a path littered with flowers, rained over it by the village children—with the morning lighting up the earth into a paradise, I entered Greenhurst, its mistress, yet scarcely wishing to be that. It was enough and too much happiness for me that I was the wife of its master.

Three months after my wedding-day, I was taken with a sudden desire to visit Marston Court. None of my old habits had been laid aside. I still gloried in a gallop over the uplands on Jupiter who grew young as he undertook these wild rides. My husband was absent, and Lady Catherine now lived entirely at Paris. It was not often that my old restless habits came on, but this day I was haunted with a feeling that some one wanted me at Marston Court. I had been thinking of Chaleco all day, with a degree of anxiety which no reasoning could explain or dispel. These haunting thoughts grew so powerful at last, that I ordered Jupiter to be saddled. Just as I was mounting him, a bit of paper was placed in my hand by a boy. It contained a single sentence:

“Zana, Aurora’s child, come to me.“Chaleco.”

“Zana, Aurora’s child, come to me.

“Chaleco.”

This message was a relief. It gave a reason for the depressing thoughts that had driven me forth. I put my horse to his speed, never pausing to ask what direction we should take. By this time Marston Court was no longer a picturesque wilderness; the gardens were almost in order; the noble trees were free from undergrowth; the house itself princely. Leaving my horse in the grounds, I walked across the garden to the summer-house, through which the gipsy chief had conducted me from the tower chamber. The mosaic star remained, with its secret undiscovered, in the pavement. I remembered its mechanism, and with a little force wheeled it from the openingit concealed. The passage was dark, but a little time brought me to a door which opened into the tower.

The chamber was desolate and empty. Ashes lay on the hearth as when we left it that night. The same drapery of cobwebs fell in dusty festoons over the narrow windows, rendering the room at first so dim that I could see no object distinctly. But in an instant I caught the light of two large eyes glaring at me from a corner; then a pale face, distorted with pain, with the dusky outlines of a human form, reposing on what had once been a magnificent couch. The glow of an old velvet cushion, which still retained gleams of original crimson, was insufficient to give a tinge of color to that pallid face, which seemed the more deathly from contrast with the beard of iron-grey which fell from it, like moss from a blasted tree.

“Zana! Zana!” said a sharp voice from the couch.

“Chaleco, my friend, my poor friend,” I cried, throwing myself on my knees by his couch, and taking his hand, which lay so wet and cold in my clasp, that a sudden fear came upon me that he was dying. “Your hand freezes mine—your whole frame quivers; what is the matter—what does this terrible prostration mean?”

“It means,” said Chaleco, pointing his finger to a vial that had rolled from his hand half across the floor, where it lay uncorked, with its purple contents oozing drop by drop from the neck—“it means that, like Aurora, Chaleco has fulfilled his oath. That night, Zana, when you lay in Paplta’s tent, while the rubies burned in her ears with the color of Lady Clare’s blood—that night, while the death throes were at her heart, she made me swear an oath that our revenge for Aurora’s death should be completed by the overthrow of every living Clare; that by craft or violence I would wrest away their wealth for our people, and make you—her last of race—a queen at Granada; or failing, die like a poisoned dog by this hand. As the last death-rattle left her throat she pressed the drao into my palm. Look, you see it yonder dripping like gouts of black blood drop by drop from the vial. From that day I have carried it in my bosom. Zana, Zana! I havebought your happiness with my vengeance and my life; now tell me, on your soul—if human beings have souls—are you happy?”

“But for this knowledge—but for your danger—oh, heavens! that it should have been done for me—I am happy, Chaleco.”

A smile trembled over his white mouth, he reached forth his quivering hands and, seizing my garments, drew me down to his embrace.

“Live in peace,” he said; “her fate is atoned for. It was vengeance on them, or death to myself. I have parted with my people. A new count reigns in my place. I had the choice and wandered back to die with you, Zana.”

“Oh, Chaleco, it was a wicked oath; sinful in the taking, doubly sinful in the keeping.”

“Hush, Zana, is was that you might live free from Papita’s curse.”

I looked at him in dismay, the death shadows were gathering on his features.

“You are in great pain. Oh, my friend, is it death?” I questioned.

“Pain! yes, I might have made it the work of an instant, but gave myself time; every moment of your presence I have bought with a pang; but I could not die without you, Zana.”

“And must you die—die in this desolate place?” I said, shuddering as his arms loosened and fell from around me.

“I like this best,” said Chaleco, rising to one elbow, and casting his glittering eyes around the room. “A Caloe count should not die in the sun’s light, while his people grovel in the dark earth. I am but a shadow now, Zana, fast melting away into dark nothingness; this place is fittest.”

“Not so, not so, my friend!” I cried, sobbing out the grief I most truly felt; “cast aside these terrible ideas of death—pray to God—let me pray for you. She will help us—Aurora, whom you loved, whom you shall surely see again.”

The gipsy began to revive again. The glances of his eyes burned into mine. His frame shook like a dead branch in winter.

“Zana, do you believe this?—do you believe that Aurora lives in—in—anywhere?”

“I do not believe—Iknowit, certainly as I know that the stars burn in heaven, or that the earth is solid under my feet.”

His eyes grew brighter and more eager. He turned over, grasping my hands between both his.

“Zana, how am I to reach her? What can I do? Tell me—tell me, before this coldness reaches my heart—tell me, Zana!”

“Pray—pray to God.”

“I do not know how,” he pleaded; “it is like grasping at mist. What shall I repeat?—which way must I turn?”

The sight of that poor, helpless man would have inspired marble with a spirit of prayer. I was upon my knees; his quivering hands were clasped in mine. I uplifted them to heaven with broken sobs—with tears and a burning eloquence with which no prayer for my own soul had ever yet ascended to heaven.

As I prayed, his hands were softly withdrawn from mine. I paused, and through the agony of my tears saw those poor fingers tremblingly clasp around each other, and uplift themselves. Broken words wavered on his lips. He seemed looking at something afar off in the dim shadows of the room.

“Chaleco!” I cried, in affright.

His hands fell apart and dropped slowly down, touching mine, like ice; his eyes, glazed and fireless, turned upon my face.

“Aurora! Aurora!”

Was it a prayer that Chaleco uttered when he gasped forth my mother’s name? I hope so. I believe so.

THE END.

Mrs. Stephens’ illustrated new monthly has now been established One Year, and the favorable impression with which it was at first received has not only been retained, but deepened. It is felt even to have exceeded the promises then made, and to have sensibly advanced in interest, beauty, and excellence.

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It is, undoubtedly, the cheapest in America.

In the Number for July, 1857, the first issue of the Third Volume, will be commenced a new Novelette, entitled,

THE ROYAL SISTERS,By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

THE ROYAL SISTERS,

By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

The price is only 12½ cents, or $1 50 per annum. If you desire a good Magazine, edited with scrupulous care, superior in style, beautiful in its mechanical features, pleasant to read, to handle, to look at, a thoroughly unique and elegant publication, send for and examine a copy of this Magazine.

Office of Publication, 126 Nassau street.

Mrs. Ann S. Stephens’ Novels.New Editions, uniform with “The Heiress of Greenhurst,” 12mo., cloth. Price $1 25 each.I.Fashion and Famine.

Mrs. Ann S. Stephens’ Novels.

New Editions, uniform with “The Heiress of Greenhurst,” 12mo., cloth. Price $1 25 each.

Fashion and Famine.

There is no sorrow for the earnest soulThat looketh up to God in perfect faith.

There is no sorrow for the earnest soul

That looketh up to God in perfect faith.

“As a work of art, irrespective of its pure morality, its high-toned sentiment, and deep and true womanly feeling, it is among the very best fictions we have read for years. The characters are contrasted with true artistic talent, their peculiarities are admirably presented, and never overdrawn. The plot is eminently original, and yet probable.”—New York Express.

II.The Old Homestead.

II.

The Old Homestead.

There are some human souls serenely bright,Born, like lost cherubim, so close to heaven,That all their lives are radiant with its light,And unto such are holy missions given.

There are some human souls serenely bright,

Born, like lost cherubim, so close to heaven,

That all their lives are radiant with its light,

And unto such are holy missions given.

“Seldom have we had a more truthful, a more charming glimpse of rural life. In parts it is highly dramatic; and all its aim is pure and lofty. Mary Fuller is a creation of which any living author might well be proud.”—New York Daily Times.

☞Mailed, free of Postage, on receipt of Price.EDWARD STEPHENS, Publisher,126 Nassau street, New York

☞Mailed, free of Postage, on receipt of Price.

EDWARD STEPHENS, Publisher,126 Nassau street, New York

EDWARD STEPHENS, Publisher,

126 Nassau street, New York

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTESSilently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

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