THE UNWELCOME VISITOR.
I spent a wakeful night, disturbed by a host of new feelings and strange
thoughts, that crowded upon me like a rush of waters. All night long a
review of the day’s hunt went forward in my fancy. The brilliant dresses
and those strange faces circled me with a sort of fascination. Sometimes
they smiled warningly, then they gibed at my torn garments—and foremost
of all was the proud face of Lady Catherine. Oh, how I began to hate
that woman! It was the bitter antagonism of a life-time striking root
deep in my heart.
Toward morning I thought of Turner, with a pang that was punishment
enough for the sin of my first disobedience. I knew that he was not only
grieved but plunged into difficulties on my account—that all the evils
he had been so anxious to guard against were already brought on by my
obstinate self-indulgence.
This reflection made me heart-sick, and I turned away from the soft
daylight as it broke through my room, ashamed to receive it on my
ungrateful face. With faltering steps I went down stairs and seated
myself in the little breakfast-room. Turner was in the garden, but
though I had not the cowardice to shrink from encountering him in the
house, I could not summon courage to seek him.
He saw me at the window looking sad enough, I dare say, and, coming up,
gave me a handful of tiny white roses, which were the glory of a plant
that he had never allowed to be touched before. I felt the tears rushing
to my eyes, and creeping toward the old man, murmured in the deepest
humility,
“Oh, Mr. Turner, why don’t you scold me? Why not punish my wickedness?”
“Because,” he answered, with a miserable shake of the head, “because you
will be punished enough, poor thing, before night, or I am mistaken.”
“I hope so—I’m sure it would be a satisfaction to be soundly
reprimanded. You break my heart with all this kindness.”
“Here comes one,” said Turner, growing red in the face, “who will not
sin in that way, I can answer.”
I followed his look, and saw Lady Catherine Irving coming through the
garden, walking rather quickly, and brushing down the autumn flowers
with the sweep of her garments. On seeing us she resumed the stateliness
usual to her movements, and stooped now and then to gather the snowy
flowers of a chrysanthemum, which she seemed to examine curiously while
approaching the house.
“Ah, Turner,” she said, drawing toward the window, “what a pretty little
nest you have here; and what flowers! I have never seen any thing to
compare with these,” and forming a ring with the thumb and fore finger
of her left hand, she drew the white tufts softly through it, as Nero
might have trifled on the day of his mother’s murder. “Why, you live
here with your little family quite like fairies. No wonder you are so
often absent from Greenhurst.”
“I hope that none of the duties my lord left for me to perform are
neglected, madam,” answered Turner, with a degree of dignity that
charmed me.
“No, no—I do not complain—far from it, good Turner—that I am here is a
proof of it. Your child—I hope she was neither frightened nor hurt by
the hounds.”
“No, madam,” I answered, leaning through the sash. “It was rather
lonesome being left by myself with the poor stag; but the young
gentleman”——
“Hush!” said Turner, sternly, glancing toward Lady Catherine, whose
cheek flushed with sudden color.
I saw the color and the glitter in her eyes, more expressive still, and
even Turner’s caution could not control me. I was determined to let her
know that her son had returned to protect me. The remembrance that he
had seemed to fear her knowledge of it only urged me on.
“The young gentleman came back and put Jupiter and me into the right
path: but for that I don’t know what would have become of us.”
“Your daughter seems a bright, and—forgive me, good Turner—rather
forward little thing,” said the lady, lifting the flowers softly to her
lips, as she gave him a searching glance. “I am very glad though, that
she is unharmed.”
Turner looked at her, and then with a restless movement at me. The color
came up among his wrinkles, and his features began to work as if some
unfinished resolution had set them in motion. Before he could speak,
however, Lady Catherine’s voice broke in again,
“And your wife—my good Turner—really I must have a sight of her and this
pretty home of yours—quite a _bijou_ in the grounds, truly!”
Placing a richly enamelled glass to her eyes, the lady took a quiet
survey of the building before Turner could find words to answer her.
Never had I seen the old man so agitated. The color came and went
beneath his wrinkles; his thin lips grew pale and purple by turns; his
state of irresolution was painful.
“I will step in and see your wife!” said Lady Catherine, dropping her
glass to the full length of its Venetian chain, and looking around for
the door.
Now Turner became calm; every muscle and nerve settled down. He stood
more firmly on the ground, and looking his tormentor steadily in the
face, answered,
“Some one must have been joking at my expense, my lady. I have no wife!”
“No wife!” exclaimed Lady Catherine, with a start that even I could see
was premeditated. “No wife—and this child?”
“You are mistaken,” said Turner, “this is not my child. Yourself saw me
when I took her up from your own door-stone, or rather the door-stone of
Greenhurst, eight years ago.”
A cold smile curled Lady Catherine’s lip. She lifted her glass again and
eyed me through it. “I remember the circumstance,” she said, and the
hateful smile deepened—“I remember, too, that a child disappeared very
mysteriously but a short time before from this nest—two children in
fact—if my people told me aright.”
“They did tell you aright, lady,” said Turner, sternly—but she
interrupted him.
“One, the elder, went out to service, I fancy. This one dropped,
miraculously, on my door-step. Well, well, my good Turner, no one thinks
of quarrelling with this fanciful way of adopting your own children; but
her mother—unless you are really married to this woman, she must go. I
cannot answer it to society—to Lord Clare, the most particular man on
earth—if she is allowed to remain on the estate a day longer.”
“Madam,” said Turner, “I have said but the truth; Zana, there, is no
more my daughter than her Spanish bonne is my wife!”
“Who is her—her father?—who is her mother then?” asked Lady Catherine.
I remarked that her voice faltered in putting this question, and she
could not look in Turner’s face.
Turner regarded her firmly, and a faint smile stirred his lip. Lady
Catherine saw it, and once more there arose a shade of color in her
cheek.
“Lady, I can answer these questions no more than yourself, for you were
present when I found the poor child.”
“And had you never seen her before?” questioned the lady.
Turner hesitated and seemed to reflect; but at last he answered firmly
enough.
“It is impossible for me to say yes or no.”
The lady played with her flowers awhile, and then spoke again very
softly, and with a degree of persuasion in her voice.
“Well, Turner, we will not press you too hard. I cannot forget that you
were my brother’s favorite and oldest servant, and now his agent—that he
trusted you.”
“He did indeed,” cried the old man, casting a glance full of affection
at me.
“I am sure you would do nothing that could cast reproach on him,”
continued the lady, placing a strong emphasis on the pronoun.
“Not for the universe,” ejaculated Turner.
“Yet, while you live thus—while there is a doubt left regarding this
child, cannot you see that even my noble brother may be condemned as—as
sanctioning—you understand—this species of immorality—on his estates?”
“But how am I to prevent this?” exclaimed Turner, after a moment of
perplexed thought, during which he gazed on Lady Catherine, as if
searching for some meaning in her words which they did not wholly
convey.
“Let me tell you—for I have been thinking on this subject a good
deal—she is a fine-spirited girl that, a little wild and gipsyish; but
many of our guests were struck with her.”
“No wonder!” exclaimed Turner, with his face all in a glow. “Who could
help it?”
“So they inquired a good deal about her, and when it came out that she
lived here under your protection, of course, it led to questions and old
things—nonsensical gossip about by-gone times that quite made me
nervous—you understand, good Turner. So I told them what I am sure is
the truth even yet—that the Spanish woman here is her mother, that she
is your own child—that you are married.”
Turner shook his head.
“Then it will be so,” persisted the lady, “or as I said before, both
woman and child must leave the estate.”
“You cannot be in earnest!” said Turner.
“Does it seem like earnest when you find me here at this hour of the
morning?” replied the lady.
“But it was Lord Clare’s desire—his command—that I hold authority in
this house until his return,” persisted Turner.
“He mentions nothing of this in his letters to us. Besides, you cannot
mean to say that he has made such provisions for these females.”
“No, Zana was not here at the time; but I know, I am sure”——
“Be sure of nothing!” exclaimed Lady Catherine, with more energy than
she had yet exhibited—“be sure of nothing, if you love your master, but
that you can _serve_ him best by silencing this subject of public gossip
at once. Marry the woman with whom you have been so long domesticated!”
“_Marry!_” exclaimed Turner, with a terrible twist of the face, as if
the word had not really come home to his heart till then, “marry at this
time of life, and a Spanish woman. Wouldn’t it do as well, my lady, if
they set me in the pillory for an hour or so!”
“It might not do so well for the girl, perhaps,” was the stern reply.
“For her sake I would do anything!”
“It is a great pity to keep the poor thing caged up here: and what is to
become of her in the end? As your daughter she can come up to the house
and see something of society.”
“What, a servant, madam?” cried Turner, reddening fiercely.
“Nothing of the kind; you are no common man, Turner; and certainly that
child, with her wild, arch, nay, haughty style, might pass anywhere. She
shall come to the Hurst and obtain some accomplishments. I should fancy
her greatly about the house. She might pick up a little education from
my son’s tutor, who will be down in a week or two, and become quite an
ornament to the establishment.”
“She would be an ornament to any place,” said Turner, proudly.
“Yes,” replied the lady, smiling upon me, “any man might be proud of her
for a daughter. I dare say we shall be excellent friends soon—meantime
think of what I have said. This is a charming place, it would be a pity
for the child to leave it. To-morrow let me have your answer.”
She moved proudly away, holding up her dress, and winding carefully
through the flower-beds, as if her errand had been the commonest thing
in the world.