MYSELF AND MY SHADOW.
I do not know how Turner managed to establish me in this luxurious home,
but Lord Clare had left him with power to act, and I suppose he
exercised it in my behalf, without consulting Lady Catherine. In fact,
the cottage had for years been considered as his residence.
I grew stronger and more contented as time went on. The stillness, the
bright atmosphere, and the love with which I was surrounded, hushed my
soul back into childhood again, for up to this time I can remember but
few thoughts or sensations that partook of my infant years.
In truth, there was something fairy-like in my position, well calculated
to excite an imagination vivid as mine to most unhealthy action.
Sometimes it seemed to me as if I had been a child of the air, for my
first memory went back to the lark’s nest in the meadow; and my earliest
idea of enjoyment was rich with bird music. Good as Turner and Maria
were, it never entered my mind to consider myself as absolutely
belonging to them, more subtle and refined affinities existed within me.
Everything that surrounded me was calculated to excite these feelings.
The utmost prodigality of wealth could have supplied nothing of the
beautiful or refined which was not mysteriously bestowed on me. The
clothes I wore, my toys and books were of the most exquisite richness.
The texture of everything I touched was of peculiar delicacy; thus a
natural worship of the beautiful, inherent in my nature, was fed and
pampered as if by magic. The house contained a library of richly bound
books, in many languages, mostly classical, or on subjects of foreign
interest. Few romances were among the collection, but the poets of all
countries were well represented. The best poetry of Italy, Germany and
Spain, the ancient classics, and mythological subjects predominated.
Many of these volumes were in the original language, but there was no
lack of English translations. The most remarkable thing about this
collection was an entire deficiency in the works of native authors. A
few of the poets were to be found, Milton and two or three others, but
everything calculated to give an insight into the social life or history
of England, seemed to have been excluded with vigilance.
The small hexagonal room which contained these books was connected with
my sleeping-chamber by a small gallery lined with pictures. Two or three
statuettes, copies from the great masters, occupied pedestals in this
gallery, and the lights were so arranged that every inspiration of the
genius that had given life to the canvas or the marble, was thrown
forward as by a kindred mind. This room and its gallery, unlike most of
the other apartments, were left unlocked, and, with my imagination on
fire with the legends in which Maria was constantly indulging, I loved
to wander along the gallery, and ponder over the pictures, filling each
landscape with some scene of active life, and reading a destiny in the
strange faces that looked down upon me from the wall.
But more especially did the statuettes become objects of admiration,
probably because they touched some latent talent of my own, and awoke a
desire of emulation. Even at this early period of my life, I felt an
appreciation of the beauty in form and proportion so exquisitely
maintained in these objects, keen as the desire of a hungry person for
food. An awkward position, an ill arranged article of furniture, cross
lights upon a picture, anything which outraged that exquisite sense of
the perfect, which has been both my happiness and my bane, was as vivid
with me before I knew a rule of art as it is now.
So with this inherent sense of the beautiful guiding me like a sunbeam,
I made play-fellows of the breathing marble and of pictures so rare, as
I have since learned, that a monarch might have coveted them. I grew
ambitious to emulate the marble in my own person, and amused myself,
hour after hour, in practising the graceful position which each
maintained on its pedestal. This grew tiresome at length, and impelled
by the genius within me, I began to invent and arrange new combinations
for myself, before the large mirror that reflected back the gallery and
all it contained, when my chamber door was open.
Was I struck by the vision of childish beauty that broke upon me from
the mirror during these efforts? Yes! as I was pleased with the
paintings upon the wall, or the statues that gleamed in their chaste
beauty around me. I loved the wild, little creature that stood mocking
my gestures in the mirror, because she was more brilliant than the
paintings, and more life-like than the marble—because her arch eyes were
so full of the life that glowed in my own bosom. Ah, yes, I loved the
child. Why not? She alone seemed my equal. I did not reflect that she
was the shadow of myself, or in truth identify her with my own existence
at all. She seemed to me like a new picture going through another
progression toward life. They were so changeless; but she was variable
as a hummingbird. She smiled, moved, looked a thousand things from those
great flashing eyes. Oh, if she could have spoken, I was sure in my
heart that she might have uttered that strange, hidden language of mine.
So I met the wild, little beauty each day in the mirror. Every graceful
curve and line of the statues had become familiar, and almost wearisome
to me, but here was infinite variety changing at my will. She was my
slave, my subject, a being over whom I had absolute control; and this
was the first idea that I ever had of companionship.
In the library I found some books still done up in brown paper packages,
as if ordered for some purpose and forgotten. These, of course, became
objects of especial curiosity to a child always on the alert for
discoveries. They were juvenile volumes, richly illustrated, containing
all the fairy tales, I do believe, ever invented or translated into the
English language.
I seized upon these books with eagerness, studied the pictures, and made
toilsome efforts to spell out their meaning. So between Maria’s reading,
and my own spelling out of words, we gathered up all the glowing
romance; and this opened new visions to me, and gave a vivid impulse to
my day dreamings among the pictures. It was only my wild spirit that
wandered. At first the debility that followed my illness, and afterward
Turner’s earnest prohibition, confined me to the house, or, as a great
indulgence, to the little flower nook directly under the windows.
A winter and spring went by, and then my fairy-like imprisonment ceased.
Old Turner grew cheerful and indulgent; he gave me long walks among the
trees; he brought a pretty black pony upon which I rode, while he walked
by my saddle.
My frame grew vigorous, and my spirits bird-like, under this wholesome
indulgence. Sometimes I caught glimpses of Greenhurst, and a vivid
remembrance of the morning Turner had found me upon its door-steps, came
back upon my brain. I wondered if the lady, with her dog, and that long,
silver-grey morning-robe, was there yet, and if I should ever see her
again. As my courage and curiosity grew strong, I inquired about these
things of Turner. “No, the lady was not there,” he said, “she had gone
up to London, to be near her son, who was at Eton.”
Where was London? Who was her son? What was Eton?
How eagerly I crowded all these questions together, when, for the first
time, I found the dear old man disposed to indulge my curiosity. London,
Eton were soon explained, but they still seemed like the cities I had
read of in my fairy books. But when he told me of this son, that he was
Lord Clare’s nephew, and might one day become owner of Greenhurst, our
own pretty home, and the broad fields and parks around us to the horizon
almost, my heart fell, my thoughts grew dark, and for a moment the
beautiful landscape disappeared. A cold mist surrounded me. It was but
for a moment, but why was it? How came this bleak vision to encompass me
thus with its dreary indistinctness? Had some name jarred on my memory
which refused to receive it, and yet felt the shock? Was that name Lord
Clare’s? Why had neither Turner nor Maria ever mentioned him before? Who
was he? What was Turner to him?
I asked these questions at once. Turner answered in a low voice, and I
fancied with reluctance. Certain I am, his voice was more husky than
usual.
He explained that Lord Clare was his master—that he had gone into
foreign lands, and might not come back for years. The lady whom I had
seen was his sister, unlike him in everything, but still his sister; and
during his absence her home was to be at Greenhurst whenever it might be
her pleasure to reside there.
We had ridden to the brow of an eminence on the verge of the park while
Turner was giving me this intelligence. The spot commanded a fine view
of the country far and near. In a sweeping curve of the distant uplands
stood a dark stone dwelling, partially castellated and partaking of a
style which admits of towers and balconies, so ornamented that it was
impossible to guess to what age they belonged. It was an imposing
building, and made both a grand and picturesque object, lapped as it was
among the most verdant and lovely hills in the world. I looked toward
this building with interest. It seemed like something I had seen before,
pictured perhaps in a book.
“And that,” said I, pointing toward the distance, “that house yonder
among the purple hills, is that Lord Clare’s also?”
“That,” said Turner, with a sigh, and shading his eyes with his withered
hand, “that is Marston Court.”
He paused, shook his head mournfully, and then, remembering that the
name was not a full answer to my question, continued, “Yes, yes, that is
Lord Clare’s also. It came to him through—through his—his—through Lady
Clare.”
“And who lives yonder, dear Turner?”
“No one; it is shut up.”
“I think,” said I, leaning down toward the old man, who stood with one
arm thrown over the neck of my pony, “I think this world must have very
few people in it for all that you tell me. No one at Greenhurst—no one
out yonder—only you and Maria and me among these woods and fields.”
“And is not that enough, child?”
I shook my head.
“Are you not happy with us, Zana? What more do you want?”
“I want,” said I, kindling with the idea, “I want to see a child; you
tell me the world is full of little girls and boys like me—where are
they?”
“I have thought of this before,” muttered Turner, uneasily, “it’s
natural—it’s what I should have expected. What company are the Spanish
woman and such a dry old chip as I am for a creature like this?”
His look of annoyance disturbed me. I could not bear to see his old face
so wrinkled with anxiety.
“We should have to take a long journey to find the children, I suppose,”
said I, hoping to relieve his perplexity; “but Jupiter here is so
strong, and so swift, if you could but keep up with him now, we might
search for them, you know.”
The old man still looked anxious, and bore down heavily on the neck of
my beautiful steed with his arm.
“Don’t,” said I, “you will hurt Jupiter; see how his head droops.”
“Poor thing, I would not hurt him for the world, if it were only for her
sake,” said the old man, smoothing the arched neck of Jupiter with his
palm; “next to you, Zana, I think she loved this pretty animal.”
“Who—who was it that loved Jupiter so?” I inquired, with eager
curiosity.
“Your mother,” replied the old man, and the words dropped like tears
from his lips.
“My mother,” I repeated, looking upward, and solemnly expecting to see
that sweet face gazing down upon me from the clouds. “Let us go home,
dear Turner, I am growing cold; do not say that again, the sound drifts
over me here like a snow-heap, it hurts me.”
Turner seemed to struggle with himself. Then lifting his eyes to my
face, as if he had nerved his resolution to say something very painful,
he answered,
“One minute, Zana! Tell me, child, what is it that makes you turn white
and shiver so, when I speak as I did now of your mother?”
“I do not know!” I replied, looking upward, with anxiety. “The cold is
here at my heart, I do not know why.”
“Do you remember your mother? Now that you are well, something of the
past should come back to you. Child, make an effort—that mother—what has
become of her?”
I only shuddered—but had no reply to give; I could feel, but all was
blank and blackness to my thoughts.
Turner saw my distress, and his own become more and more visible. He
looked upon the ground and began muttering to himself, a habit that he
had when very much perplexed. His thoughts reached me in disjointed
snatches, but I dwelt upon them long after.
“How can I send him word? What can I say? Even proof of her own identity
is wanting—proof that would satisfy him. Besides, his anxiety was for
her—poor thing—even more than the child. If she could but be made to
remember. Zana, Zana!” he burst forth, grasping my arm, and looking
imploringly into my face, “struggle with this apathy of mind—strive,
think—tell me, child, tell me something that I can get for a clue! Tell
me if you can—try, try, my pretty Zana, and you shall have troops of
children to play with. Tell me, where was it that you parted with your
mother?”
I did make an effort to remember. My veins chilled; my cheeks grew cold
as ice; I lifted my finger upward and pointed to a bank of clouds
rolling in fleecy whiteness over us.
“Is that all?” exclaimed Turner, despairingly.
I could not speak, my lips seemed frozen. I sat like a marble child upon
the back of my pony; everything around me had turned to snow once more.
Tears rolled down Turner’s cheeks, great, cold tears, that looked like
hail-stones—they made me shiver afresh.
It was the last time that Turner ever tortured me with questions
regarding my mother—questions that I had no power to answer, yet which
brought with them such mysterious, such indescribable pain. Later, when
my soul was called back from the past—but of this hereafter.