CHAPTER XL.ONCE MORE AT GREENHURST.
It was a large chamber, full of rich, massive furniture. The windows were all muffled with waves of crimson silk, and I found myself in the hazy twilight they created, dizzy and blinded by a rush of emotions that it seemed impossible for me to control. After a little, the haze cleared from my vision, and I saw before me a tall man, attenuated almost to a shadow, sitting in a great easy-chair with his eyes closed, as if asleep.
I looked at him with a strained and eager gaze. His head rested on a cushion of purple silk, and a quantity of soft, fair locks, so lightly threaded with silver, that, in the rich twilight of the room, all traces of it were lost, lay scattered over it, withthe purple glowing through. The face was like marble, pure and as white, but with dusky shadows all around the eyes, and a burning red in the cheeks that made me shudder. A Turkish dressing-gown of Damascus silk, spotted with gold and lined with emerald green, lay wrapped around his wasted figure. His hands were folded in the long Oriental sleeves, and I could see the crimson waves over his chest rise and fall rapidly with his sharp and frequent respiration.
I stood beside him unnoticed, for my footsteps had fallen upon the richly piled carpet lightly as an autumn leaf. The basket shook in my hands, for my limbs knocked together, and the perspiration started upon my arms and forehead. But I made no sound, forced back the tears that struggled in my heart, and stood waiting for what might befall.
Lord Clare turned feebly on his cushion, and let one pale hand fall down from his bosom.
“Turner,” he said, in a faint, low voice, “did I not ask for something?”
“Yes, my lord—some fruit. It is here.”
I approached. Lord Clare opened his eyes—those wild, blue eyes, and turned them full upon me.
I could no longer bear my weight, my limbs gave way, and I fell upon one knee, holding up the basket between my shaking hands.
Turner drew close to my side, holding his breath and trembling.
Lord Clare did not touch the fruit, but fell slowly back on the cushion with his great burning eyes upon my face.
“Turner,” he said at last, sitting upright and speaking in quick gasps—“Turner, what is this? Who is she?”
“I do not know,” answered the old man, “we found her on the door-step years ago. Be tranquil, Master Clarence. If she is the one we have sought for, there is no proof but those eyes—that face.”
Lord Clare reached out his arms, and tears smothered the painful gaze of his eyes.
“Aurora,” he said, in a voice of such tenderness that my tears followed it, “forgive me before I die.”
Turner clasped his hands and held them up toward heaven, trembling like withered leaves, while tears rolled silently down his cheeks.
“You know, Master Clarence, it cannot be herself.”
Lord Clare turned his eyes from me to Turner, then lifting one pale hand up to his forehead, he settled it over his eyes, and directly great drops came starting from between the fingers. A feeble shudder passed over his frame, and he murmured plaintively, “No, it is her child, our child. But where is she?”
“I never learned,” answered Turner, sadly.
“Ask her, I cannot.”
“It is useless, my lord, she knows nothing!”
“She must—she must—my child was six years old. At that age children know everything,” he answered eagerly, “and Zana was very forward, my bright Zana.”
He looked at me, till I shrunk from the feverish glow of his eyes. At last he spoke, and my very heart trembled beneath the sweet pathos of his voice.
“Zana, where is your mother? Tell me, child; I cannot die till she has spoken to me again.”
I bowed down my face, and answered only with bitter sobs.
“Is she dead? Is Aurora dead that you weep, but cannot speak?” he questioned, faintly.
“Alas! I do not know!” was my agonized reply.
“My child—Zana—and not know of her mother’s fate! what unnatural thing is this?” he cried, burying his face in the long sleeves of his gown. “This child is not my daughter, Turner; Aurora’s child could not have forgotten her mother thus.”
I struggled with myself—from my innermost soul I called on God to help me—to give me back the six years of life that had been wrested from my brain. My temples throbbed; my limbs shook with the effort; it seemed as if I were going mad.
Lord Clare lifted his face; his eyes swam in tears; his palelips trembled. Laying both hands on my head, he spoke to me again—spoke so tenderly I thought my heart must break before he had done.
“Zana—my daughter—my poor, lost child, what has come over you? Do not be frightened—do not tremble so. Look up in my face—let me see your eyes fully. Turner, they arehereyes, my heart answers to them, oh, how mournfully. Zana, I am your father—you should know that, altered as I am, for men do not change like children. There, love, there, stop crying; calm yourself. I have but one wish on earth now, and that depends on you.”
“On me?” I gasped.
“On you, my darling. Listen, I call you darling, does not the old word bring back some memory?”
He looked beseechingly in my face, waiting for a reply that I could not give. My head drooped forward, bowed down with the anguish of my imbecility.
“It is sweet—it thrills my heart to the centre,” I said, mournfully.
“And awakes some memory? You remember it as something heard and loved, far, far back in the past. Is it not so?”
I shook my head.
He bent forward, wound his arms lovingly around me, and, drawing me upward to his bosom, kissed my forehead.
“And this,” he said, folding me to his heart so close that I could feel every sharp pulsation. “Is there nothing familiar now?—nothing that reminds you of an old stone balcony, full of flowers, and a bright little thing leaping to her father’s bosom; and she, that wronged woman, so darkly beautiful, looking on? Child, my Aurora’s child, is there no memory like this in your soul now?”
“This tenderness has filled my heart with tears, I can find nothing else there,” I answered, sadly.
He unfolded his arms, and they dropped down, loose and helpless, like broken willow-branches, and the quick panting of his bosom made me shudder with a thought that he was dyingI arose, and then he started upright in his chair, and fixed his flashing eyes upon me.
“Is this creature mine or not?” he said—“Aurora’s daughter or a mockery? Am I accursed among the children of the earth for one wrong act? Will this mystery walk with me to the grave? Am I a father, or childless? Girl, answer me—wring the truth from that brain! Before God I must know it, or death will not be rest. Your mother, Zana—where is your mother?”
His voice rang sharp and clear through the chamber, filling it like the scream of a wounded bird. His eyes were wild; his cheeks hueless. I cowered back, chilled to the soul by his last words. The room disappeared—everything grew white, and shuddering with cold I felt, as it were, snow drifts rushing over me, and through their paralyzing whiteness came the cry,
“Your mother, Zana, where is your mother?”
How long this lasted I do not know, but my next remembrance was of sitting upon the carpet, faint, and with a stunned feeling, as if some one had given me a heavy blow. A silver basket lay upturned by my side, and a mass of crimson fruit, matted with flowers, lay half among the frosted silver, half upon the carpet.
The room was still as death, save the short, painful sound of some one breathing near me. I struggled to my feet, and sat down in a great easy-chair which stood close by me. Then, as my sight cleared, I saw that a window had been opened, that the drapery was flung back from a massive ebony bedstead, and upon the white counterpane I saw Lord Clare lying among the folds of his gorgeous dressing-gown, pale and motionless as marble.
Turner stood over him, bathing his forehead, white almost as the sick man.
I arose and would have approached the bed, but Turner waved me back, and I left the room, sick to the very heart’s core.
I met some persons in the galleries, but passed on withoutnoticing them. As I reached the lower hall, Lady Catherine Irving came in at the front entrance, apparently just from her carriage.
“How is this?” she said, turning pale with rage. “Who permitted this? How came the girl here?”
Her words had no effect upon me; the miserable preoccupation of my soul rendered them harmless. I went by her without answering, and left the house.
“See that the creature is never admitted again; I will discharge the servant who lets her in,” she continued, following me to the door.
I took no heed, but remembered her words afterward.
I wandered off in the woods, for the very thought of the close air of a house maddened me. Reflect I did not; a chaos of wild thoughts and wilder feelings possessed me.
At last I found myself on the eminence which I have described more than once, from which a view of Marston Court could be obtained. The strange man whom I had met there, years ago, came to my mind; and, singular as it may seem, I thought of him with a sort of hope which grew into a desire for his presence.
I thought of my father, for not a doubt arose within me that Lord Clare was my father—of the agonizing darkness which hung over his death-bed—of the inability which prevented me sweeping that darkness aside. What was the mysterious thread which lay upon my faculties? What human power could ever unloose it?
I looked around in anguish of heart. Was there no help? I would pray to God, humble myself like a little child at his feet, that he might mercifully enlighten me. There was hope here, and I knelt down upon the turf, bowing my face in silence before God. The effort composed me; it hastened the natural reaction which must follow any intense excitement, and in my motionless position I became calmer.