CONCEALMENTS AND SUSPICIONS.
And now I have an existence, I am a human soul growing like a flower in
the warmth of that young bosom, flitting through the house and haunting
my mother’s lap like a bird. The first memory that I have is like a
starbeam, as quick and vivid. My mother sat in a little room somewhere
in an angle of the building just at sunset. Her hair was down; the
Spanish woman had unbraided the long tresses, and shaken them apart in
dark wavy masses. They fell over the crimson cushions of her chair to
the ground. The sash doors were open into a stone balcony choked up with
clematis. The sunset came through in golden flashes, kindling up those
black waves till they shone with a purple bloom. Her dress was crimson,
of camel’s hair, I think, with a violet tinge, and flowing down her
person in soft folds, that glowed in the light like pomegranates on the
bough. Half over her shoulders and half upon the chair, was a cashmere
shawl of that superb palmleaf pattern which looks so quiet, but is so
richly gorgeous; a profusion of black lace fell around her arms and
neck, contrasting the golden brown of her complexion. Her eyes—I never
saw such eyes in my life—so large, so radiant, yet so soft; the lashes
were black as jet, and curled upward.
It is useless. I can remember, but not describe her, that peach-like
bloom, those soft lips so full, so richly red. I have no idea where I
was at the time, only that I saw her sitting in that room so much like a
picture, and felt that she was my mother.
She was looking into the garden with an expression of tranquil
expectation on her face. I remember watching the shadows from her
eyelashes as they lay so dreamily on her cheeks, for though she
evidently expected some one, it was not with doubt; she was quiet as the
sunbeams that fell around her, now and then turning her head a little as
the Spanish woman gathered up a fresh handful of her hair, but still
with her half-shut eyes fixed upon the footpath that led through the
wilderness.
I sat down upon some cushions that had been left in the balcony, and
watched her through the open sash till the heavy folds of hair were
braided like a coronet over her head, and her look became a little
anxious. Then I too began to gaze across the intervening flower-beds
upon the footpath, as if a share in the watchfulness belonged to me.
At last, as the golden sunset was turning to violet, and one felt the
unseen dew as it fell, I saw, through the purple mist, a man walking
slowly along the footpath. My heart leaped, I uttered a little shout,
and clasping my hands, looked up to my mother. Her lips were parted, and
her eyes flashed like diamonds.
“It is the Busne—the Busne,” I said.
She took me in her arms, and smothering me with glad kisses, murmured,
“My Busne, mine, mine!”
I answered back. “No, no, mine,” holding my hand to her mouth, and still
shouting “mine!”
Her beautiful face grew cloudy. My words made her restive: she would not
have her entire right questioned even in sport by her own child. She
placed me upon the cushions, and turning away entered the room again.
My father came across the flower garden with a quicker pace. He held a
light basket in his hand which I saw with a shout, making a desperate
effort to clamber over the old stone balustrade, which was at least ten
feet from the ground. He held up his hand reprovingly, called for me to
go back, and turning a corner of the house, was in the room with my
mother before I could disentangle my hands and clothes from the
multiflora and clematis vines into which I had plunged.
This too was the first time that the person of my father fixed itself
definitely on my remembrance. He stood leaning over my mother’s chair,
holding her head back with a soft pressure of the hand upon her
forehead, and gazing down into her upturned eyes with a smile that might
have been playful, but for a certain undercurrent of sadness that could
not escape the sharp perception of a child like me. Yet even this added
to the singular beauty of his face, a strange type of beauty that
combined the most delicate physical organization with a high order of
mental strength. His forehead, square and high, without being absolutely
massive, was white as an infant’s, and in moments of rest as smooth. But
a painful thought or a disturbing event would ripple over its delicate
surface like the wind over a snow-drift. The brows grew heavy; two faint
lines marked themselves lengthwise upon the forehead just between the
eyes; a peculiarity that I have never seen save in persons of high
talent. The contrast between him and my mother was almost startling, he,
so fair, so refined, so slender, with a reservation as if he concealed
half; she, dark, vivid, resplendent, with every impulse sparkling in her
eye before it reached the lip; wild as a bird—uncalculating as a child,
but with passion and energy that matched his. When two such spirits move
on harmoniously it is heaven, for the great elements of character are
alike in each; but when they clash, alas! when they clash!
I cannot tell what feelings actuated my parents, or if anything had
happened to disturb them, but they grew sad, gazing into each other’s
eyes, till with a faint smile he dropped his hand from her head, saying,
“am I late, Aurora!”
She answered him, and rising with a bright smile, drew the shawl around
her. He sat down in her chair, and she sunk noiselessly as a woman of
the Orient down to the cushions.
I was completely overlooked, but if they were forgetful, I was not. The
little basket stood upon the floor, where my father had placed it. I
crept that way softly, took up a layer of fragrant blossoms, and there,
interspersed with vine leaves, I discovered some of the most delicious
hothouse grapes, purple and amber-hued, with peaches that seemed to have
been bathed in the sunset.
In my delight, I uttered an exclamation. My father looked round.
“Come hither, mischief,” he said, threatening me with his finger! “Come
hither with the fruit. It is for your mother.”
She half started from her cushion, and held out both hands, as I came
tottering across the carpet, with the basket in my arms. It was for her,
and he brought it. That was enough to render anything precious; besides
the fruit was very fine, and the hothouses at Greenhurst had produced
none that season. Her eyes sparkled as she received the basket in her
lap.
“There,” she said, filling my greedy hands with a peach and a bunch of
grapes; “go away, little ungrateful, to forget papa’s kiss in searching
after plunder—sit down and be quiet.”
I sat down, and while devouring my fruit, watched and listened as
children will.
“How beautifully they are arranged!” said my mother, placing and
replacing the peaches with her hand, for she had the eye and taste of an
artist; “how rich, all the exquisite delicacy of spring blossoms with a
fruity ripeness! One can almost taste the fragrance in a peach; at
least, I fancy so.”
“Your fancy would almost create a reality!” said my father, smiling.
“How beautiful, how kind in you to devote so much time and so much taste
all for us!” continued my mother, lifting her radiant eyes to his; “for
I know who did all this, not the old gardener, nor dear good Turner,
they could never have blended these leaves.”
“Nay, nay,” answered Lord Clare, over whose lips a mischievous smile had
been playing, “do not fling away so much thankfulness; neither the
gardener, Turner, or myself had anything to do with it. The fruit came
from some kind neighbor, I fancy, who wishes to break my gardener’s
heart, for not a peach or grape has ripened as yet under his
supervision. I found the basket on a table in my room, and as it was
prettily arranged, and looked deliciously ripe, I saved it for you and
the child.”
A shade came over the superb eyes of my mother, but she smiled and
murmured, “Very well, you brought them, that is real at least.”
“Yes, yes, I brought them sure enough,” he answered, laughing, as he
watched me crowding one grape after another into my mouth, while I
devoured the rest with my eyes. “See, it is one of Murillo’s children
eating grapes. You remember the picture in Munich?”
“Yes, oh, it is very like! What eyes the creature has! How greedily she
eats, she is the picture itself!” and my mother laughed also, the last
thoroughly gleeful laugh that I ever heard from her lips.
I did not trouble myself about the Murillo, but the fruit was delicious,
that was quite enough for me, so I shook my head and would have laughed
too had that been possible with so many grapes in my mouth.
“Ah, what is this?” exclaimed my mother, holding up a rose-colored note
which she had found among the cape jessamines that lay in a wreath
between the basket and the fruit.
“This will explain who has sent the gift, I fancy,” answered my father,
taking the note; “I searched for something of the kind at first, but
could find nothing.”
He unfolded the paper carelessly as he spoke. She was looking up, and I
had stopped eating, curious to know all about it. I shall never forget
the change that came over my father as the writing struck his eye. His
face, even to the lips, whitened. He felt her gaze upon him, and crushed
the note in his hand, while flashes of red came and went across his
forehead.
She turned pale as death, and without asking a question stood up,
swaying as if a current of air swept over her. Some magnetic influence
must have linked us three together. Surely the pulses in my father’s
heart reached some string in ours by those subtle affinities that no
wisdom has yet explained. I felt a chill creeping over me; the fruit lay
neglected in my lap, I cast it aside upon the carpet, and creeping to my
mother, clung to her hand, hiding myself in the folds of her robe.
My father still held the note, gazing upon it in silence, buried in
thought. His face had regained its pallid composure; he seemed to have
forgotten our presence. At length he looked up, but not at us, and with
a forced smile broke the seal. He glanced at the contents, then held it
toward my mother with the same constrained air and smile; but his hand
shook, and even I could see that something very painful had come over
him.
“From Marston Court.”
This, with a date, was all the note contained. She read it over and over
again. It explained nothing. It was but a single sentence, the name of a
place of which she had never heard, but she looked in his face and
remained pale as before. The intuition of a heart like hers is stronger
than reason.
A constraint fell upon us. I crept away among my cushions, and felt the
twilight darken around us. Then I sunk into a heavy-hearted sleep, for
my parents were both silent, and I was soon forgotten.
When I awoke the windows were still open, and the room seemed empty. The
moonbeams lay white and full upon the clematis vines, and their blossoms
stirred beneath them like masses of snow. Children always turn to the
light. Darkness seems unnatural to them. I crept out into the balcony,
and clambering up the old balustrade, looked out on the garden. Close by
the wilderness where the shadows lay deepest, I saw a man walking to and
fro like a ghost. Once he came out into the moonlight, and I knew that
it was my father.
A narrow flight of steps, choked up with creeping vines, ran down from
the balcony. I scrambled over them on my hands and knees, tearing my way
through the clematis like a wild animal, and leaving great fragments of
my dress behind. I ran through the flower-beds, trampling down their
sweet growth, and pausing on the verge of the shadow—for I was afraid of
the dark—called out.
My father came up hurriedly with an exclamation of surprise, and
evidently alarmed. His hat was off—his beautiful brown hair, damp and
heavy with night dew—but his hands were hot as he lifted me up, and when
I clung to his neck and laid my cheek to his, it was like fire.
Moonlight gives almost supernatural brilliancy to the human eye. His
glittered like stars.
“My child, my poor child,” he said, “what is the matter? How came you
abroad? Your little feet are wet with dew, wet, clothes and all; what
has come over us, my pet, my darling?”
He took out his watch and looked at it in the moonlight. It was twelve
o’clock. Holding me close to his bosom, he strode across the garden and
up the steps, crushing the vines beneath his feet. There was no light in
the chamber, but upon the cushion which she had occupied at his feet sat
my mother. The moon had mounted higher, and its light fell like a great
silver flag through the casement. She sat in the centre motionless and
drooping like a Magdalene, with light streaming over her from the
background, as we sometimes, but rarely, see in a picture.
At the noise of my father’s footstep, she started up, and came forth
with a wild, wondering look.
“How is this, Aurora?” he said, in a voice of mild reproof, “I left you
with the child hours ago, and now when I thought you both at rest, she
is wandering away in the night, wet through and shivering with cold.”
“I did not know it. When you went out a strange numbness fell upon me.
It seemed as if I were in the caves at Granada again, and that all our
people were preparing to take me to the Valley of Stones, I was so
passive, so still!”
“Aurora!” said my father, in a tone of bitter reproof, “you know how I
loathe that subject—never mention it again—never think of it!”
“I never have thought of it till to-night,” she answered, abstractedly,
“why should I?”
“And why to-night?”
“I do not know. My life has two sides, one all blackness,” here she
shuddered—“the other all light; the barranca at Granada, and this house,
my grandmother and you.”
Her face became radiant with affection, as she lifted it to his in the
moonlight.
“Why should she come between us even in my thought? You are here, you,
my child, my home. What has cast this heavy burden on my soul? It is the
gipsy blood beginning to burn again: surely nothing has happened.”
She questioned him closely with her eyes, thus pleading with him to
silence the vague doubts that haunted her; he answered faintly,
“Nothing, child, nothing has happened.”
She drew a deep breath, and gave forth a faint laugh.
“Ah, how strangely I have felt. It must have been the cold night air.
This England is so chilly, and you, how damp your clothes seem. Your
hair is saturated! Come in, beloved, come in, my poor child, my bird of
Paradise, she will perish!”
Lord Clare bore me into the chamber. Lights were obtained, and my wet
garments were exchanged for a night robe of delicate linen.
“See if I do not take care of her,” said my mother, folding the cashmere
shawl around me, while great tears crowded to her eyes, and she looked
timidly into his face.
“I do not doubt it,” he answered, kindly, “she is warm now and getting
drowsy upon your bosom. Go to rest; both need it. Do you know it is
after midnight?”
He touched her forehead with his lips, and kissing me, prepared to go.
She looked after him, and her great eyes said a thousand times more than
she would have dared to speak.
He hesitated, said something about the necessity of being early at
Greenhurst, and then, as if restraint had become irksome beyond
endurance, laid his hand on the stone balustrade, and leaped over.
My mother drew me closer and closer to her bosom, as his footsteps died
on the still air. I remember no more, only that in the morning I awoke
in her arms with the shawl folded around me. She had not been in bed all
night.