THE HAZELNUT HEDGE.
In a week Lady Catherine and her son arrived, but I had lost all desire
to see them. Turner found no difficulty now in persuading me to keep
in-doors. But George never sought me. I knew that Greenhurst rang with
gaiety; that Estelle Canfield, with many other fair patricians, was
filling its stately rooms with mirth and beauty, but I was forgotten. It
seemed to me at times, that my heart would break. The roundness melted
from my limbs; the bloom was slowly quenching itself on my cheeks; my
orphanage had never been complete till then.
But Cora was left to me—the pet and darling of my life. I was still the
same to her, and she was more gentle and more lovely than ever. To my
surprise, the return of company to Greenhurst made little impression
upon her. The girlish curiosity and excitement which had formerly
annoyed me seemed extinguished in her nature. Indeed she became rather
more sad than usual; and I often found her sitting alone, and so still,
under the cypress tree, where her father had leaned on that funeral day.
It did not seem strange to me, this quiet sadness, thus harmonizing with
the sorrow that dashed all joy from my own life. At another time I
should have remarked it, but now it appeared natural as night tears do
to the violet.
To Mr. Clarke I sometimes opened a leaf of my heart; but only to reveal
the shadows that lay there, in abstract musings and mournful questions.
At such times he soothed me with his sweet, Christian counsel, that left
tears like dew upon every blossom of my nature. Thus I became day by
day, more closely knitted to this good man and his child; and the
girlish love that had been so strong merged itself into the still deeper
affections of my opening womanhood. I loved them—how I loved them the
reader will hereafter know!
One day, I was returning home about sunset, and alone. There was a
footpath that shortened the distance across the meadows which lay
between the village and Greenhurst, and I threaded it wearily, as one
walks who has no object. The path led through the hazel thicket where my
arm had been wounded. After clambering the wall I sat down among the
bushes, weary, and so depressed that I longed to hide myself in their
shelter even from the daylight.
I put back the lace that flowed from the short sleeves of my dress, and
looked, through rushing tears, at the tiny white spot which the wound
had left upon my arm. It was scarcely larger than a pearl, and to me
infinitely more precious, for it came from him. It marked the reality of
those love words that lay, even then, glowing in the bottom of my heart.
It was all over. He had gone his way in the world. I—yes, I must go
mine; for to remain there in my dear old home with him so near, and yet
so far away, was killing me.
I sobbed aloud; it was not often that weeping did me much good, but
everything was so still—and I grew so miserably childish that the tears
fell from my eyes like rain. A thrush lighted on a branch close by, and
with his pretty head turned on one side, seemed regarding me with
compassion. I thought of the lark’s nest, where, a child, I had slept so
close to death, and wished, oh, how truly, that God had taken me then.
While I sat thus lost in sorrow, a gush of wind swept through the
thicket, and I heard some one wading through the tall, red clover tops,
shaking off their sweetness upon the air I breathed.
I shrunk back, ashamed of my tears, ashamed to be seen. But the steps
approached steadily towards the wall, and I sat by the path, breathless,
still hoping that the hazel branches would conceal me.
But the steps diverged a little, and the thicket was parted just before
me. My breath came back in a sob. I concealed my eyes with both hands,
and cowered back among the bushes.
He paused. I heard a faint exclamation, and then—then I began to sob and
tremble. He was at my side half-stooping, half-kneeling; his arm was
around me. With one hand he drew down mine and looked into my face.
“Zana—Zana!”
I looked up and smiled.
“My poor Zana,” he said, “you have suffered—you look ill—how is this?
They told me that you were happy.”
“Yes, _so_ happy,” I replied, yielding myself for one moment to the
clasp of his arm—“so happy that it is killing me.”
“Killing you,” he said, laying one hand softly upon my head, and putting
it back that he might see the face so changed since we met last. “In
solemn truth, I believe it is; how strangely you look, Zana, how much
older—how full of soul—how worn with feeling!”
I remembered why this change had been—who and where I was. What right
had he, George Irving, of Greenhurst, with his arm around the
illegitimate child of his uncle? No wonder his proud mother despised
me—her insults were natural—but this tenderness, these looks of
love—this caressing arm—what insult could she offer so burning as that?
The fire of this thought flashed through my veins. I sprang up and cast
his arm away.
“You have no right—I do not belong to you—never can—never, never!” I
exclaimed. “You know it, and yet do this!”
“I did not believe it before, not wholly, not entirely—the suspicion was
too dreadful,” he answered, turning white. “I will not believe it even
yet, till your lips utter it in words.”
“Why should I? You know that it is true—that a barrier of iron rests
between your love and mine.”
“It is enough!” he answered, turning still more deathly pale. “Zana, it
is enough—you have stung me to the soul.”
“I have not imparted to you any portion of my shame,” I answered with
bitter tears.
He started as if a viper had stung him.
“Your shame, Zana!—your shame! Speak out, girl—if another had said that
word!”——
We both started. He broke off sharply. Upham had crept, unseen, close to
his elbow.
“Ha, Irving—so you have found the truant in her nest! Hasn’t she grown
to be a bird of Paradise, but sly as ever; aint you, Zana?”
I stood in astonishment gazing at him, without uttering a word. This
audacity took away my breath.
“I have just come from the parsonage,” he continued, with a quiet smile,
addressing George. “My bird of birds had flown, but I left the beautiful
Cora waiting with great impatience.”
Irving gave me a look that made me almost cry out—turned, leaped the
wall with a single bound, and left me alone with that reptile.
He looked after George with a smile that died coldly on his lips beneath
my searching glance.
“What is this?” I questioned, “your manner has changed, sir. It
insults—it offends me!”
“What, you are angry because I have driven away that boyish profligate,”
he answered; “the lover of Cora, the betrothed of Estelle.”
“It is false,” I cried, full of indignation.
“Ask Lady Catherine!” he replied.
“I will ask himself,” I answered.
“Then you have promised another meeting; it will be a good excuse. But
let me warn you, a second private appointment of this kind may reach
Lady Catherine. I have but to drop a hint even now, and you are driven
ignominiously from the estate; while he—perhaps you have forgotten that
but for the bounty of his uncle and Lady Catherine Irving—he is a
beggar.”
Oh, how the wretch tortured me! I felt every word he spoke like the
touch of cold iron.
“Let me pass, I would go home,” I said, faint with anger and disgust.
He stepped aside, smiling coldly.
“But first,” I said, pausing, “you spoke of Cora, my friend, my sister,
and of him—this must be explained.”
“I have said my say,” was his cold answer.
“Then I will ask him!”
“Of course he will confess all. It is so natural to urge a suit with one
lady, while you make her the confidant of your love for another. Really
your village beauties know how to deal with men who have learned
morality in Paris, and love-making at Vienna.”
“But I will tell Cora of this slander.”
He smiled.
“Is it slander to say that a pretty angel like Cora Clark has captivated
a roving young fellow of Irving’s taste?”
“But it is untrue—I will question her.”
“I have a great idea of unsophisticated innocence, village simplicity,
and all that, Miss Zana, but really permit me to doubt if Miss Cora
Clark makes you the confidant of her little love affairs.”
“She has none, she never had,” I exclaimed, with jealous anger.
He laughed again. The sound stung me like an arrow. I turned away,
sprang over the wall, and walked along the footpath back to the
parsonage. My progress grew slower and slower as I fell into thought,
for a remembrance of the change in Cora’s manner oppressed me. I came in
sight of the parlor window. The glow of Cora’s golden hair shone through
the dusky green of the ivy leaves as she leaned out, shading her eyes
with one hand as if to be certain that she saw aright. She drew back,
and directly after I caught a glimpse of some male figure gliding around
a corner of the church rapidly, as if to avoid observation. The figure
was too slight for Mr. Clark, and at first I strove to convince myself
that it might be Upham himself, who had outwalked me, concealed by a
hedge that ran near and parallel with the footpath; but I cast the
suspicion from me. The coldness which had uniformly marked his
acquaintance with my beautiful girl forbade it.
I entered the little parlor, panting, but resolute. Cora rose to receive
me, a good deal flushed, and with a look about the eyes as if she had
been agitated and weeping. She did not ask the reason of my sudden
return, but fixed her blue eyes with a look of affright on my face, as
if prepared for, and dreading what I was about to say.
At the time, this did not strike me, but in after days I remembered it
well.
“Cora,” I said, disarmed by the look of trouble on her sweet face—“Cora,
my sister, tell me, who was it that just left you?”
“Why do you ask?—No one—no one has left the cottage. You—you found me
alone!”
“And have you been alone all the time since I went away?” I inquired.
“I—I—not quite, my father was here. But why do you ask such questions?”
Her eyes filled, and her sweet lips began to tremble, as they always did
when grieved, since she was a little child.
“Tell me one thing, Cora, was it any one from Greenhurst that I just saw
going round the church.”
“You saw him then,” she said, turning pale, and sinking to her chair.
“Oh, Zana!”
I too sunk upon a chair, and we sat gazing into each other’s pale face
till both burst into tears.