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 antipathy of 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 of _your_ mother, and in Lord Clare’s escritoir!” she
exclaimed; “upon my word, George, this impudence is sublime.”
“It _was_ my 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 white lips—“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 qualities that 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 repulsive as 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
carelessness that 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 watching his 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.