MY FATHER’S RETURN.
No human being can comprehend the desolation, the heart sickness, that
seized upon me after this interview with Cora. Nothing had been
explained between us. I had looked in her face, and saw it bathed with
tears and guilty blushes, from which my very soul shrunk back. My love
for that girl was so true, so deep—my love for him—it was like uprooting
the life within me, the agony of bitter conviction that he was trifling
with me—with her perhaps. But the very intensity of my sorrow made me
calm, nay, even kind to her. I think at that moment she would have
confided in me entirely, had I urged it, for she was deeply moved—but I
could not do it! For worlds I would not have heard the details of his
miserable perfidy; they would have driven me mad.
My faith in human goodness, which had hitherto been to me like a
religion, was from this time broken up. I was adrift on the world, full
of doubt, terror, and contempt. Cora, George—where could I look for
truth? The wickedness of Lady Catherine seemed noble compared to theirs.
I had no other friends, save the two kind hearts in my own home, and
there I fled for shelter as a wounded bird to his nest.
It is said that there is no real love unless respect for its object
composes the greater share; but is it a truth? Is it the worthy and good
on whom our affections are most lavishly bestowed? The history of
every-day life tells us no—the history of my own heart answers no. Amid
all the bitter feelings that tortured me, love for the two beings that
had wronged me most was still strong in my soul, a pang and curse, but
vital as ever.
With all my apparent and real frankness, there was a power of
suppression in my nature that no one would have believed. With regard to
my own feelings I was always reserved and silent, they were too sacred
for every-day handling, and nothing but the inspiration of some generous
impulse, or the idea that I could have sensations to be ashamed of, ever
won me to confess anything of that inner life which was both my heaven
and my torment. Oh, what torment it proved then!
But I was of a nature “to suffer and be strong.” Self-centred in my
desperate anguish I went on in life, giving out no visible sign by which
those two beings who loved me, Turner and Maria, could guess that I had
been so deceived.
It was well that I had this strength, that the springs of life within me
were both elastic and powerful, for the great battle of existence had
but just commenced. I had been aroused to a knowledge of the feebleness
and falsehood of others; soon I was to learn how much of evil lay
sleeping in my own nature.
One night Turner came home earlier than usual, and in a tumult of
excitement that we had seldom witnessed in him before.
He came to my little room, where I now spent all the day.
“Zana, Zana,” he said, drawing me toward him, “come hither, I have
something to tell you—I have news.”
“What news?” I inquired, with a pang, for it seemed to me that Cora and
Irving must have something to do with a subject that could so interest
the old man. “I—I am not fond of news, Turner. Nothing good ever comes
to me now.”
“God only knows, child, whether it is for good or for evil, but Lord
Clare is in England! On his way even now to Greenhurst.”
My heart swelled. I felt the blood leaving my lips; my hands grew cold
as ice.
“Turner,” I said, wringing his withered hand in mine—“Turner, is Lord
Clare my father?”
His small eyes opened large and wide. The wrinkles deepened on his face
like lines upon a map. My question took him by surprise.
“I would give ten years of my life, Zana, to say yes or no with
certainty.”
“Then you cannot tell me,” I cried, cruelly disappointed.
“Oh, if I could—if I only could, all might yet end well with you, poor
child. But there is no proof—I am not certain myself. How then will it
be in my power to convince him? If you could but remember. You were six
or seven years old when we found you, Zana, and at that age, a child has
many memories—but you had none.”
“Yes, one—I remember _her_ face.”
“But nothing more?”
“No, nothing. To attempt anything more wrenches all my faculties, and
brings forth shadows only.”
“This is always the answer. What can I do?” muttered the old man,
“resemblances are no proof, and I am not sure of that. Zana, have you
the least idea how Lord Clare looks?”
“Yes,” I answered, “for I have seen his portrait.”
“There again,” muttered the old man—“there again, at every turn I am
blocked out. But that other face, what is it like?”
“Dark, sad; great flashing eyes full of fire, but black as midnight;
hair like the folds of a storm-cloud; a mouth—but how can I describe it,
so full of tender sorrow, so tremulous? Tell me, is this like my mother?
Was she thus, or not?”
“It is too vague, I cannot tell.”
“But I have seen it, not flashing thus, but real, every feature still;
it was only one glimpse, but I knew that it was her.”
“Where did you see this? Long since and living?”
“No, it was a picture, at Greenhurst; I took it from an old cabinet of
black wood carved all over and rough with jewels.”
“Where is it now—that picture?”
“Lady Catherine has it—she snatched it from me.”
“But you knew the face?”
“Yes, I knew the face.”
“This is something, but not enough,” said Turner, thoughtfully. “Still
if his heart speaks for us”——
I laid one hand on my bosom, for it swelled with painful force.
“My heart is speaking now,” I said. “If he is my father, God will send
an answer.”
As I spoke, the sound of distant bells came sweeping through the trees,
and we heard the faint murmurs of a shout, as if people at a great
distance were rejoicing together.
“He has come. It is from the village,” said Turner, and tears rolled
down his cheeks. “My boy—my boy, God bless him. Will you not say God
bless him, Zana?”
I could not answer; every clash of the bells seemed to strike against my
heart. I knew it was my father that was coming; but when Turner asked me
to bless him, that face came before me, and _I could not do it_.
Turner left me, for the state of excitement in which those bells had
thrown him allowed of nothing but action. He followed no path, but I saw
him running at full speed across the park, as if the weight of twenty,
not sixty-five years, went with him. Directly, and while the sunset was
yet red in the west, I heard the sound of carriage wheels and the swell
of dying shouts, as if the villagers had followed their lord up to the
lodge-gate. Then all grew still, save the faint sound of wheels, the
rustle of a thousand trees, that seemed to carry off the shout amid the
sighing of their leaves.
I could not rest, for thought was pain. I wandered about the house, and
at length went down stairs in search of Maria. She sat in the little
breakfast-room, surrounded by the twilight; and as I entered softly, the
sound of her weeping filled the room.
I stole to her side, and sitting down at her feet, laid my head on her
lap, excited beyond endurance, but with no power to weep.
She passed her hand softly down my hair, and sobbed more passionately
than before.
“What are you crying for? Everybody else seems happy. Only you and
Turner receive the Lord of Greenhurst with tears,” I said.
“We parted from him with tears,” she answered, sobbing afresh.
“You knew him well then, ma bonne?” I said, plunging into the subject
recklessly now that it was commenced.
“Knew him well?” she answered; then breaking into Spanish, she murmured
among her tears, “too well—too well for him or for us.”
She took my face between her hands, and gazed down upon it with mournful
tenderness.
“My bird,” she murmured, “ask me no questions about the earl—my heart is
full to-night. It is not you that sits at my feet, but another—another.
Oh, what became of her?—what became of her? More than ten years, and we
have no answer to give him.”
“That person—she who sits in my place overshadows me in your heart—is it
my mother?” I questioned, in a whisper.
“The God of heaven only knows!” she answered passionately. “Do not
question me, child, for the sound of those bells has unlocked sad
memories—I have no control over myself—I shall say forbidden things.
Hush, hush, let me listen.”
I kept my head upon her lap, brooding in silence over her words. I could
wait, but a stern determination to know all, to solve the mysteriousness
that surrounded me, filled my being. I thirsted for entire knowledge
regarding myself, and resolved to wrench it from its keepers, whatever
pain it might bring or give.
But after Maria had wept awhile, she grew calm and circumspect. I could
feed my craving with no more of her passionate outbreaks. We sat
together till deep in the night, conversing in abrupt snatches, but I
gathered nothing from what she said to confirm my suspicion that at
least a portion of my history was in her keeping.
Turner did not come back that night, nor till deep in the next morning.
When he did appear it was with a step of lead, and with trouble in his
heavy eyes. Maria met him at the door, and a few hasty words passed
between them before he entered.
As they came in I heard her say, as if repeating the word after him,
“dying! not that—oh, not that!”
“It has killed him at last—I knew it—I foresaw it from the first,”
answered Turner, bitterly. “The fiends—would to heaven they had all been
smothered in their holes before he”——
“Hush, hush,” said Maria, “not a word against her. If he is dying—what
may her fate have been?”
“God forgive me, I was wrong—but there is a sight up yonder, Maria, that
would draw tears from marble. But, Zana, where is she?”
“Has he spoken of it? Has he inquired?” asked Maria, quickly.
“He asked only one question—if she was found, nothing more.”
“And you spoke of Zana?”
“No, of what use would it be? I have no right to torture him with bare
suspicions; but the girl—let him see her—if his heart does not speak
then, we never must.”
“She will not refuse—you always judge rightly,” was Maria’s mild
rejoinder. “Must I go with her?”
“No, let her come alone. Go, tell her.”
I came forward and put my arm through that of the old man. He drew back,
held me at a distance with both hands, and pondered over every feature
of my face, as if his life had depended on perusing them correctly. At
last he drew me gently toward him, and smoothed my hair with his palms.
“Zana,” he said, “you are a woman now—be firm and still; whatever you
see, do not give way.”
“I will not; guide, and I shall follow steadily.”
“Lady Catherine is at Greenhurst,” he said.
“I know it.”
“She forbids you to come; she threatens me if I attempt to bring you to
Lord Clare. Have you courage to follow me against her orders?”
“Yes!”
“And her son’s, should he urge them on me?”
My words came like lead, but I answered, “yes,” to that also.
“But will you do more than that for my sake, Zana? Will you steal in
privately and avoid them all?”
I could not answer at first. The mere thought of entering that stately
dwelling was hateful; but to enter it stealthily like the thief that
woman had called me, was too much. Unconsciously I recoiled.
“Zana, Lord Clare cannot live many days. If he dies without seeing you,
all is lost—will you come? Will you be guided once—only this once by old
Turner?”
I remembered all that he had done for me, all his beautiful integrity of
character, and blushed for the hesitation which seemed like distrust.
“I am ready to follow you now, and always,” I said. “Tell me what to do,
and I will obey.”
“Thank you, child,” said the old man. “Come at once, in the dress you
have on. Lady Catherine has gone out to drive—if she returns before we
leave, have no fear, I shall be with you.”
I threw a mantle over my dress, and went out, keeping up with Turner,
who walked on rapidly, and absorbed in thought. We entered the back door
over the very steps upon which the old man had found me ten years ago.
He seemed to remember it, for as I crossed the threshold he turned and
reached forth his hand as if to help me along. His heart was busy with
the past. One could see that very plainly, for he gave a little start as
I took his hand, and turned a sort of apologizing smile upon me, and I
saw tears steal one by one into his eyes, as he pressed my hand and drew
me forward. We threaded the hall, and mounted the massive oak staircase
without encountering even a servant. Then Turner clasped my hand
tighter, as if to give me courage, and led me rapidly through several
vast chambers, till we came to a closed door at which he paused.
“Step into that window and hide yourself behind the curtains,” he
whispered.
I went at once, and when he saw the heavy crimson silk sweep over me,
Turner knocked lightly at the door.
It was opened by young Morton, who stepped out and spoke in a whisper.
“He has been inquiring for you.”
“That is well,” answered Turner, “you can leave him entirely now and get
some rest—I will take your place.”
“Thank you. I have just ordered some fruit—you will find it on the tray
yonder,” said Morton, evidently glad to be relieved.
“Yes, yes, I will attend to it.”
As he spoke, Turner followed the young man into the next room, watching
him as he walked down the long perspective of a neighboring gallery.
When certain that he was quite alone, the old man came to the window and
stepped behind the drapery. He was very pale, and I saw by the nervous
motion of his hands that he was subduing his agitation with difficulty.
“Zana,” he whispered, huskily, “I am going in; after a little, follow me
with the fruit you will find yonder. Bring it in, quietly, as if you
were one of the people. Then obey my directions as they would? Do you
comprehend?”
“Perfectly,” I whispered, trembling from head to foot, but resolute to
act.
“Now God be with us!” he ejaculated, wringing my hand.
“Amen!” trembled on my lip, but I could not speak.
He left me and entered the chamber. I waited a moment, holding one hand
over my heart, which frightened me with its strange beating. Then I
stepped forth and looked around the room. It was a sort of ante-chamber,
large and richly furnished, but somewhat in disorder, as if lately used.
Upon a marble table in one corner stood some crystal flasks ruby with
wine, and with them a small silver basket full of fruit, with a vase of
flowers crowded close to it.
Even then the rude way in which these exquisite objects were huddled
together wounded my sense of the beautiful; and with my trembling hands
I hastily arranged the fruit, mingled snowy and golden flowers with the
rich glow of the cherries, and shaded the strawberries with cool green
leaves. As I gathered a handful of creamy white raspberries in the
centre of the basket with trembling haste, Turner opened the door and
looked out. His face, so pale and anxious, startled me, and I almost let
the basket fall.
He closed the door, and nerving myself I lifted the fruit again and
carried it forward. One moment’s pause and I went in.