MY UNEXPECTED ESCORT.
I was left alone, I and the poor trembling, exhausted stag, who lay
partly upon his knees, gazing at me through his filmy and half shut
eyes.
I looked around for Jupiter, but he was not to be seen—no living thing
but the worried stag and myself in all that dim solitude.
A sense of exhaustion and of loneliness fell upon me. My heart grew
mournful, and the poor stag with his stiffened limbs and the foam dried
on his lips, filled me with compassion. I went down to the brook,
brought up water in my hands, and bathed his mouth with it. When this
was done, the animal struggled to his feet and staggered away down
toward the water, leaving me alone. I felt this total desertion keenly,
and burying my face in my lap, began to cry like the child I was.
I sat full ten minutes sobbing forth the desolation of my heart, when
the quick tramp of a horse made me look up. I thought it must be Jupiter
returning to his duty, but instead of him I saw the young huntsman
riding gently through the trees, and now close by me.
I started up, ashamed of my tears, and looked resolutely another way,
hoping to escape his notice, but he sprang off his horse and was at my
side before I could dash the drops from my burning cheek.
“So you have been crying, poor child?” he said, with a sort of
patronizing manliness that would have amused an older person. “No
wonder, we were a set of savages to leave you here alone, and with no
means of getting home.”
“It was savage!” I said, realizing for the first time how badly I had
been used; “but the animals were just as cruel, the stag and Jupiter; I
would not have believed it of Jupiter, he used to love me; and the very
first trouble, off he goes with the rest!”
Tears came into my eyes again at this thought, but I quenched and
crushed them between my eyelashes, too proud for an exposure of my keen
distress at the desertion of Jupiter.
“Nay,” said the youth, smiling, “but I have come back to see after you.”
“Did you?” I replied, with a gush of gratitude; “to see after me, and
for nothing else?”
“What else should bring me back?” he replied, looking around as if in
search of something. “So the stag has gone too, ungrateful beast. I had
a fancy to fasten some badge on his horns that he might be safe
hereafter. He was a noble old fellow after all, no wonder he was glad to
get away from this spot!”
“But Jupiter,” I said, with growing confidence in the youth, “what can
have become of my pony? How am I to get home? Oh, if I only had been
good—if I had but stayed in-doors as they told me!”
“As who told you, lady bird?”
“Mr. Turner. He knew that I had no business abroad when the country was
full of strangers!”
“And is Turner a relative? What control can he possess over you?”
“He,” I replied, kindling with wonder that any one should doubt Turner’s
right to control me. “Mr. Turner, I belong to him! No one else owns me.
Scarcely any one else cares for me. Why, in the wide, wide world, he is
the only person who ever shall control me—dear, blessed Mr. Turner!”
“He is a whole-hearted, queer old soul, sure enough,” was the reply;
“but certainly you are not his child; I never knew that he was married.”
“His child!” I cried, breathless with the thought. “I—I don’t know—how
should I? I his child—his own? What put the idea into any one’s head? It
sounds so strange. Do you mean that Mr. Turner is my father that people
ask after so often?”
“Nay, I mean nothing—only is Mr. Turner, as you call him, married?”
“No, I think not. Maria, I am sure, isn’t married; but I never asked,
never thought of it.”
He was about to answer, but that instant a low, timid neigh from behind
the spur of a rock close by, made me start.
“That is Jupiter—that is Jupiter!” I exclaimed, and with this joyful
shout away I bounded, gathering up my torn skirt in both arms, and full
of spirit once more.
Sure enough there stood my pony, sheltered and hidden by the rock, to
which the pretty creature had fled from the crowd of huntsmen. The sound
of my voice called forth his neigh, and never did a dumb creature
express more satisfaction at the presence of its mistress.
“There you see—you see it was not Jupiter’s fault, the dear, dear old
rogue. He was so wise to creep away and wait till those hateful people
were all gone!” I exclaimed triumphantly, laying my hot cheek against
the glossy neck of my horse.
“And did all those people really seem so hateful?” replied the youth,
caressing Jupiter.
“All! I don’t know. That lady was the only one I saw distinctly. The
rest floated around me, surging up and down like a red cloud. But I
shall never forget her!”
“And did she fill you with repulsion?—was she the hateful one?”
“I had seen her before; I knew her!”
“Indeed—where?” said the youth, in a displeased manner.
“I would rather not say—it is unpleasant to talk about,” I answered,
greatly annoyed.
“But it is years since my—that is Lady Catherine, has been at
Greenhurst,” he answered, thoughtfully. “Never, I think, since the very
sudden death of Lady Clare. You must have mistaken her for some other
person.”
I was greatly excited. The remembrance of that heartless voice, when I
was taken into Greenhurst, so helpless, stung me.
“No—no,” I answered, “there are some things one never forgets, never
mistakes. I have seen that face in my dreams, and hated it in my
thoughts too long for any hope of that!”
The youth drew himself back, and ceased to caress my horse. There was a
quiet dignity in his manner that made me ashamed of my own vehemence.
“That lady is my mother!” he said calmly, but with a tone of cold
reproof in his voice.
I scanned his face with a keen wish to disbelieve him. But now that he
was angry, there was a resemblance between his features and those I did
in truth hate.
“I am sorry for it,” I said, with a nervous sob—“very, very!”
“Sorry for what, that she is my mother—or that you have spoken
disrespectfully of her?” he questioned, more gently than before.
“I am sorry for everything that has happened to-day, and for my own part
in it most of all. It began in wicked disobedience, and will end—oh, how
will it end? What will Mr. Turner think of me when he knows this?”
“Why, what great sin are you crying for?” he said, smiling once more.
“Certainly you are a very free-spoken little person; but we must not let
Turner quite kill you; so don’t be afraid!”
“He kill me? What, Turner? No—no, not that. Afraid, afraid? Yes, yes, I
am afraid, for I have done wrong. Oh, what will become of me? I never
was afraid before—never, never.”
“But what have you done?” he asked, still more kindly.
“Mr. Turner forbade me leaving the house. He told me how wrong it was
when Lady Catherine’s company might come across me at any time; he
tried—oh, so much—to keep me happy in-doors; but it was of no use, I
could not endure it. It was as if I were a bird beating my wings against
a cage. The wickedness was in me all the time. I thought it was nonsense
staying in the house, because other people might be abroad. Then it was
so tempting, Mr. Turner at Greenhurst—my bonne occupied—the pony
neighing for me to come and take him out. Really, after all, it seemed
as if I could _not_ help it”——
George Irving laughed so gleefully that I could not go on, but began to
laugh too.
“And so you just broke loose and ran away?” he said, patting Jupiter
again and again.
“Yes, I stole the horse, saddled him myself, and was off like a bird,” I
replied, reassured by his laughter, and feeling the consciousness of my
disobedience borne away on his merry tones.
“And here you are, full seven miles from home, all alone but for me,
after braving a pack of hounds in full cry, afraid of old Turner’s
frown, as if he were the Grand Mogul.”
He laughed again, but this light way of naming my benefactor awoke the
conscience again in my bosom.
“It was very wrong—oh, that I had stayed at home!” I exclaimed, with a
fresh pang.
“Well, well, don’t fret about it any more,” he said, with a little
impatient playfulness that made me smile again. “Let me lift you to
Jupiter’s back—a pretty pony he is, my little lady—and scamper home like
a good child. Ten chances to one old Turner will know nothing about it.”
I allowed him to lift me to the saddle, and felt myself blushing as he
arranged my torn skirts with evident anxiety to give them a decent
appearance.
“Now,” he said, springing on his hunter, “I must put your pony to his
metal again. Unless I overtake Lady Catherine before she reaches home,
my position will very much resemble yours! Come, let us start as we
came, neck and neck!”
“No,” said I, brightening with new spirit, “I came in ahead—your hunter
fell a little behind Jupiter.”
“But try him now—his speed will be of use to us both,” was the laughing
reply. “My mother will be impatient, and her anger may prove worse to
bear than old Turner’s, let me tell you.”
He put his horse into a quick canter, and my pony stretched himself
vigorously to keep up.
“But please leave us to ourselves!” I pleaded, breathless, with a new
dread; “I do not wish to go with you to Lady Catherine!”
“Well—no, I am afraid her ladyship might prove formidable, were she to
be surprised after that fashion a second time,” he replied, slightly
checking his hunter, “I only propose to see you and Jupiter safe on some
avenue of the park, where you can scamper home in safety. I must be
in-doors before Lady Catherine, or this escapade will be difficult to
account for.”
My cheek grew hot with mortified pride; I felt that he was afraid of
some annoyance, perhaps ashamed of having returned for me. Without a
word I drew in Jupiter with a suddenness that made him leap—wheeled him
on one side, and plunged into the woods, leaving the gentleman, for a
moment, unconscious of my desertion.
He followed directly, urging his hunter to a run, and calling after me
as he dashed through the trees. I took no heed, and gave back no answer;
the blood was burning in my temples; I felt my lips curve and quiver
with insulted pride. No man or boy living should speak to me, or look at
me, who was ashamed to do it before all the world. Then my heart began
to ache even in its wrath. I had thought so well of him, his interest in
my loneliness, his brave fight with the hounds—why, why did he exert all
this tender strength in my behalf to wound me so cruelly afterward? He
was by my side, but I kept my head averted with girlish willfulness,
expressing my displeasure rudely like any other spoiled child.
“Will you not tell me why you ran away?” he said, attempting to rest one
hand upon my saddle as he cantered by me.
Oh, how I longed to lift my pretty riding-whip and strike him hard
across the face! I think the act would have appeased me.
“Say, child, will you explain this bit of very bad manners?” he urged,
evidently determined to provoke me to some reply.
“Child!” This was too much; the whole taunt stung me into speech. I
checked Jupiter, and felt the fire leap into my face as it was turned
toward my persecutor. He looked grave—offended.
“Because I wish to ride alone: I’m not used to company, and don’t want
any, especially of persons who are afraid or ashamed of being kind to
me,” I said, half crying amid my fiery vexation.
“I am not afraid, and am not ashamed,” he answered gravely; “yet you
cannot understand, child, for with all that fierce temper you are but a
child!”
“I am more than twelve—thirteen, fifteen, for what any one knows,” I
said, half blinding myself with tears. “I understand what it is just as
well as you can tell me; you are afraid of that haughty person, your
mother. You are not quite satisfied with having braved the hounds before
a whole crowd of people, for a little girl who has only Mr. Turner to
care for her. Oh, yes, I know—I could feel that without knowing!”
“Strange child,” he said, with a grave smile. “Who taught you all this,
so young, and without the faith becoming this girlish beauty?”
The anger was burning out in my heart. There was something manly and
reproving in his calm seriousness that subdued me. He reached out his
hand, while the smile brightened all over his face.
“Come, let us be friends—you cannot keep angry with me, because I have
not deserved it!”
I gave him my hand. He stooped in his saddle as if to press his lips
upon it, but checked the impulse; and, holding it tight an instant, let
it drop, saying very earnestly,
“I would not have wounded you for the world.”
That instant the undergrowth close by us was sharply parted, and Turner
broke into the path on which we had paused.
I felt the blood leave my face, and, for the first time, trembled at the
sight of my benefactor. The old man looked sternly across me to George
Irving, whom he neither saluted nor addressed; but, taking Jupiter by
the bit, said in a deep, husky voice, that made the heart die in my
bosom,
“Zana, come away!”
I dropped the bridle, and covering my face with both gauntleted hands,
cowered down upon my saddle with a keen sense of the humiliation which
he was witnessing.
I listened breathlessly.
“Turner, if you will let the pony move on, I will dismount and lead my
hunter while we have a little talk.”
It was Irving’s voice, and I listened breathlessly for the reply. Some
seconds passed before it came; Turner’s throat seemed husky.
“To-morrow, Mr. George, I’ll be at the Hurst,” he said, “and then as
much talk as pleases you; but now I must take this child home.”
“But she seems terrified; you will not—surely you will not be harsh with
her?”
“Harsh with her! with Zana—was I ever harsh to you in my life, little
one?” urged the old man, and the husky voice was broken up with
tenderness.
I uncovered my face, and holding out both hands to the old man, turned
toward young Irving.
“You know how wrong I have been—see how forgiving, how kind, how good
_he_ is!”
The old man’s face began to work. The fine wrinkles quivered over his
cheek and around his mouth, a sure sign of emotion in him. He lifted my
two gloved hands and kissed them fondly. All at once he dropped my hands
and went up to Irving.
“Mr. Irving—my dear Master George, forget that you have seen her—forget
all about it—promise me that you will.”
“That would be difficult,” answered the youth, glancing at me with a
smile.
“It would indeed,” said the old man, looking fondly in my face. “God
help us—this is a bad business! At any rate, leave us now!”
The young man turned, bent his head, and wheeling his hunter,
disappeared.