CHAPTER XXXVII.SORROWS, DOUBTS AND CONJECTURES.
The cold dash of water on my face aroused me, and I awoke gasping for breath as if my very soul had felt the icy deluge. Only one person remained in the room, and he was so white that it seemed like waking among the dead. A heavy weight still rested on my brain, and after a struggle or two I felt myself sinking as one falls from some precipice in a dream. All at once it appeared to me that I had been pulled back with violence. My lips burned as if a handful of thorns had been drawn across them, and again my heavy eyelids were lifted. Lady Catherine had entered the room. It was the antipathyof our natures that dragged me violently back from unconsciousness. Instantly the pang of remembrance returned, and its agony gave me strength to hear but not to move.
“Is she conscious yet?” said Lady Catherine, touching me with the point of her satin slipper.
“She has moved a little,” answered a voice, so deep and sorrowful that my heart stood still to listen.
“Let something be done; I am sick of her! Burn feathers, bring aromatic vinegar—why, is no servant at hand?”
“You would not expose the poor child thus to our servants, mother?” was the reply.
“The poor child, indeed! George, George, this is too much! Yes, I would expose her to the lowest scullion about the place—poor child! The thief!—the”——
“Mother!”
My heart leaped at the stern rebuke conveyed in this single word. I broke through the leaden feeling that held me motionless and rose to my feet, reeling and half blind, but stung into life by the epithet that unwomanly lady had applied to me.
“Madam,” I said, striving to sweep the mist from my eyes with one hand—“madam, you are false, body and soul. You know that I could not steal the picture of my own mother. God gives to every child a mother. Who shall say that the shadow of mine can belong to any one else; or, if it did, that I might not look at it?”
She interrupted me with a bitter laugh, in sickening contrast with her usual hollow-hearted loftiness.
“The picture ofyourmother, and in Lord Clare’s escritoir!” she exclaimed; “upon my word, George, this impudence is sublime.”
“Itwasmy mother!” I answered firmly, but with a swelling heart. “Mr. Irving, you believe me.”
I reached forth my hand to the young man, and he took it—held it—pressed his cold lips upon it, and thus proclaimed the noble trust that was in him, while she looked on.
“Mother!” and the words burst like fire through his whitelips—“mother, I do believe the child innocent as God’s angels!”
These words bereft me of all strength. My limbs gave way as if they had been moulded from snow. I fell at his feet, and winding my arms about his knees, gave myself up to a passion of tears.
“George Irving, undo the coil of that serpent, spurn her away, or henceforth you are no child of mine!” burst on my ears.
I saw that wicked glare of her eyes, the white rage that shook her from head to foot. There was something horrid in this fiendish rage in a mother, and addressed to her only child. I took away my arms and arose.
“Madam, calm yourself,” I said gently, for his faith had filled my soul with solemn peace, “I shall touch him no more—see him, probably, never again. You can separate us, but I know that he believes me—it is enough!”
I left the room without another word or look, and went home.
Two days after, Greenhurst was deserted. Lady Catherine and her son, with some of their guests, had departed for the Continent. He went without a word, but had I not given him up proudly, there in the presence of his mother?
Days, weeks, months rolled on, and after this terrible excitement my outer life became a dead calm; my intellect, for once, seemed to have lost its spring, and gave itself up to dreams. For a long time my faith in Irving remained firm; and though we never received a syllable from him, it seemed every day as if I had obtained some confirmation of his love; and I solemnly believe that no doubt would ever have arisen in my mind, but that the poison was sown there by another.
Those who know how sensibly a proud heart shrinks from the idea that even a suspicion of crime can attach to it, will not think it strange that I never mentioned the scene at Greenhurst to Turner or Maria; nor the fact that I had found and recognized a picture of my mother.
When the family left Greenhurst, young Moreton, his college mate and friend, remained at the old mansion with Mr. Upham, who had up to this time been the tutor of both. The intimacy that existed between these young men arose from the peculiar relations that Moreton held toward the family. But for the will which left Marston Court, with other property, to Lady Jane, who afterward became the wife of Lord Clare, this young man would have inherited everything that the old London banker possessed, for he was his nephew and sole relative. Thus he was in truth the natural heir of Marston Court and all the wealth that had devolved on the earl by the sudden death of his bride. Lord Clare left the country too much afflicted for any thought of the wrong that had been done this young man, but he had written to make liberal provision for his support and education, placing him in all respects on a level with his own nephew; and there was no just doubt that on Lord Clare’s return to England, a portion at least of the inheritance that had been swept from his hands by the fondness of an old man for his wife, would be restored to him.
With this just expectation, Henry Moreton remained at Greenhurst, with the tutor, who had always been a greater favorite with Lady Catherine than with the young men them selves. Indeed, it was by her arrangement that these two persons, so unequal in character, were left at the Hurst.
Cora and I sometimes met young Moreton and his tutor in our rambles, and occasionally they came for an hour to the parsonage; but my preoccupation and a certain consciousness of the shame that had been put upon me by his benefactress, forbade that degree of intimacy with Moreton that might naturally have sprung up between young persons thrown so much together. But I hardly gave Moreton thought enough to comprehend the very noble and beautiful traits of character which, with one drawback, were in every way estimable. He was very unlike Irving, with his prompt courage, his impetuous feelings, and generous forgetfulness of self. Sensitive, and at times almost timid, Moreton possessed few of those qualitiesthat inspire enthusiasm in a proud young heart like mine. The extreme refinement and delicacy of his person and features sometimes aroused my admiration; but in everything he was so unlike my own idol, that I gave him nothing more than a kindly place in my regard. As for Cora, she seldom spoke to him. Though cheerful with every one else in his presence, she became demure and thoughtful, like a bird with its wings folded.
But Mr. Upham was not a man to awake measured feelings of this kind.
There certainly do exist persons endowed with intuitions so keen that they seem gifts of prophecy, and guard the soul, which but for them would be bruised and trampled under foot by the rude multitude. Are these feelings the thoughts of our guardian angels, the golden spears with which they hedge us in from harm? I know not, but it is certain no evil-minded being ever came near me that I did not feel a thrill of repulsion, certainly as light springs from flame.
True to this inward monitor, I never really liked this mild, self-possessed tutor. In spite of his silky manners, my heart always rose against him. It certainly seemed like a prejudice, and I often tried to reason it away. No human being could be kinder than this man; there was nothing noisy or unpleasant about him; indeed, there existed persons who found his humility, and deferential silence more attractive than the warm-hearted sincerity of young Irving; but I was not among them.
Nothing but the sensitive dislike that I felt for this man, would have enabled me to understand the stealthy and subtle advances which he made to obtain my regard. But though I could not read his motive for wishing to interest a creature isolated like myself, there was no mistaking his pertinacious endeavors. Still he never spoke out; never, to use a worldly term, committed himself in words, thus keeping my frank nature at a disadvantage. There was no discouraging a man who expressed himself only in tones, sighs and glances. But to a heart wholly given up to another, there is nothing so repulsiveas the covert attentions that hint at love, which you never have the opportunity of receiving or crushing with a word.
At another time I might not have noticed Mr. Upham so closely, but in the listless state which follows the reaction of strong excitement, I was fit only for observation and thoughtfulness; besides, the fact that this man had been so long intimate with Irving, gave him a sort of painful fascination for me. Heart and brain I was a precocious girl, and the vigilance of my observation might have befitted an older and wiser person. Still I could not read him. Why did he wish to interest me? Why was he constantly talking of me to Turner, and putting Maria under cross-questions like a lawyer? Why, above all, was he so cold toward Cora, she, so strangely beautiful, so full of rustic coquetry, that a stoic must have yielded to her graceful beauty?
I had the discernment to see all that suggested these questions, but lacked the power to answer them.
It seemed to me, at times, that Cora felt and shared my dislike; but after the events that followed Turner’s wedding, the entire confidence that existed between us was, to a degree, broken off. I never made her a confidant in those feelings that filled my whole nature, and really regarded her as too much of a child, notwithstanding our years were nearly the same, for any curiosity regarding her girlish fancies or prejudices.
Still, after a time, I could not fail to see that a change of some kind had fallen upon her. More than once I observed that her eyes were heavy as with crushed tears, and that shadows lay under them sometimes for days together; but she always burst into such passions of mocking gaiety when I grew anxious about the cause, that I was overwhelmed by it.
As the second year of Irving’s absence crept on, my heart grew heavy with anxiety; I became suspicious of his faith, restless, unhappy beyond my powers of explaining. I can now trace back these feelings to looks, hints, and disjointed questions, dropped, from time to time, by Upham, with a point that stung like drops of venom, and yet with a seeming carelessnessthat had all the force of truth. But then I suffered greatly without knowing from what source the distrust and anguish came.
One thing is very certain, the forced presence of this man, his incessant attentions, accompanied with so much perseverance, served to keep my sweet Cora at a distance from me that was painful; but I could not force my pride to ask an explanation. No sister ever more truly loved another than I loved her. There was but one thing on earth I would not have sacrificed to her, and that was so much dearer than my own soul, I could have parted with one easily as the other.
Thus, as I have said, two years went by. Then news came that Lady Catherine and her son would soon be at Greenhurst. Mr. Upham gave me this intelligence one night when I was returning from the parsonage, where I had left Cora in a state of sadness that pained me, but of which she would give no explanation. “He was going that way in order to meet me,” he said, and turned back in his usual quiet fashion as if to escort me home. His eyes were fixed searchingly on my face as he proclaimed his errand, and I felt that he was keenly reading my countenance.
But I had a strong will, and though the blood leaped in my heart at the thought of seeing Irving again, it did not reach my cheek or disturb a tone of my voice.
“They will be welcome,” I said; “the place is but little changed.”
“You are forgiving as an angel,” he answered. “That last scene with Lady Catherine would have left any other heart full of bitterness.”
“And who told you of that scene?” I questioned sharply, and with a burning sense of shame.
“Who? George Irving, of course. It sent him abroad a whole year before the time allotted to him.”
“And he told you this?”
“Certainly, why not? Did you suppose me merely Irving’s tutor?” he answered, with a strange smile.
“Why, what else are you?” I demanded.
“His friend—his confidant.”
Something in his manner put me upon my guard that evening;, and I was disinclined to continue the conversation; but he was not a man to be evaded in anything. He followed up the subject with pertinacity, and every time Irving’s name was mentioned I felt his eyes penetrating to my very thoughts. As we entered the park, I was about to turn down an avenue that led to my home, but he laid one hand on my arm and gently detained me.
“Zana,” he said, “listen to me—for one moment throw off this haughty reserve. It chills me—it is cruel, for you know that I love you—love you, Zana, as man never loved woman. Now before our little Eden is broken up by these haughty Clares—now, while I have you all to myself, let me say it!”
I looked at him in amazement. The words he had spoken seemed like sacrilege; for, to a heart that really loves, there is a sort of profanity in expressions of passion from other than the true lips.
“Zana—Zana, you are ice—you are marble—my words freeze you—this is no answer to love like mine.”
“You have said truly,” I answered. “Ice, marble, anything hard and cold is all the reply that I can give—and it is fitting, for you love me no more than I love you.”
The man turned white and stammered forth,
“You—you wrong me. Without love why should any man seek to make you his wife?”
“True,” I answered stung by his words—“true, there is something here quite incomprehensible, but it is not love.”
He broke into a passionate torrent of protestations, wrung my hand in his, and even attempted to throw his arms around me; but I retreated from him in dismay.
“You will not believe me,” he said, standing in my path pale and breathless. “You will not even believe that I love you?”
“No, I do not believe it!”
“Who—who has poisoned your ear against me? Not that canting priest; not—not”——
“No one has ever uttered a word against you in my presence,” I replied.
“Perhaps not, but you are so positive—you may have been impressed with some evil belief against me.”
“No, I have never thought of the matter.”
“Then you are truly indifferent?”
“I am, indeed!”
“You have no regard for my feeling—no gratitude for the love that I have lavished upon you so long. There is a cause for this, and that cause is your love for George Irving.”
He looked at me with malicious scrutiny, but I had expected this, and my cheek remained cool as if he had passed an ordinary compliment.
“Inscrutable child,” he muttered, “will nothing reach you?”
“You are right,” I answered, without heeding his muttered comment. “It is my love for George Irving that makes me look upon all that you express as a wrong done to him, a mockery of the true feeling that lives in my heart, as rich wine fills a cup to the brim, leaving no space for a drop less pure than itself.”
Oh, how my soul shrunk from the smile which he turned upon me.
“Can you, vain girl—can you, for a moment, think that he loves you?—you whom his uncle abandons and his mother denounces?”
The blood burned in my cheeks and temples hotly enough now, but I answered proudly,
“My thoughts like my affections are my own, I refuse to share them.”
He smiled again, derisively.
“It is this wild dream that makes you so haughty. Dream on—I can wait!—when you awake, my homage may not seem so paltry.”
He left me abruptly, and for many minutes I stood watchinghis dusky form as it wound slowly in and out among the chestnuts. There was something serpentlike about his progress that made me thoughtful.
Why had this man sought me? Not from love, of that I was assured. Was there anything in my last scene with Lady Catherine, with which he had become acquainted, to arouse feelings of ambition or interest in a nature like his? If not, where was I to seek an explanation of his strange love-making? Now, for the first time, for hitherto my pride had kept on the outskirts of the question, I asked myself plainly why the picture of that haunting face—the face, which, without proof, I knew to be that of my mother—why it should have been found in Lord Clare’s desk?
With this question came others that made my heart quail and my cheek burn. Memories thronged upon me—Lady Catherine’s words as she urged Turner’s marriage—the half uttered sentences of George Irving—the bitter dislike which his mother evidently felt for me; all these thing crowded upon my brain so close that conviction came like lightning flashes. I was Lord Clare’s illegitimate child. My mother—great heavens, how the thought of that face in all its heavenly beauty burned in my brain! Amid sobs and tears, and a bitter, bitter sense of degradation, my soul drew a black veil over it, and turned away from a remembrance of its loveliness.
I could not follow up the subject. Indeed, Mr. Upham was overwhelmed in the feelings that rushed upon me. I forgot to question his motives—forgot him—everything in the desolation of my shame.
I went home, but asked no questions either of Turner or his wife. They could have explained nothing that I did not fully comprehend, and my soul shrunk from the idea of speaking out its shame in words.
Now all rest forsook me. I had a craving wish to know everything—to penetrate into the centre of my parents’ secret, but felt all the time that it was useless, as painful to inquire.The whole history was locked up in my own soul. I felt its weight there, but the struggle to drag it forth strained my whole being to no avail.
Then my conjectures began, as at first, to wander over that which was probable. Could George Irving continue to love a creature so disgraced—a wretched offshoot from his own proud ancestral tree? And if he did, where was the end, marriage? No, no, my own pride rose up in defence of his! Where, then? Oh, how dead my heart lay as I asked the question.