THE ANTIQUE BIBLE.
I spent a most anxious night, my heart racked by a thousand wild
emotions. Need I describe them? Has any human being the power of
conveying to another in words the storm of jealousy, compassion, rage,
and love that filled my bosom? I know that there is a great want of
dignity in acknowledging that I still loved this man, that I could for
an instant think of him without virtuous detestation; but I am writing
of a human heart as it was, not, perhaps, as it should have been. To me
George Irving seemed two beings. The man I had known, generous, wise,
impetuous, all that my heart acknowledged to be grand in humanity; and
the man I had heard of, treacherous, full of hypocrisy, and vile in
every aspiration. I could not reconcile these clashing qualities in my
mind. To my reason, George Irving was a depraved, bad man; but my heart
rejected the character, and always turned leniently toward the first
idea it had formed. While I pitied Cora from the bottom of my soul, and
loved her so dearly that no sacrifice would have been too costly a proof
of this devotion, there was jealousy in my heart that embittered it all.
Alas, it is often much easier to act right than to feel right.
When I went for Cora, the next day, she took me to an oaken cabinet in
her room, and with a sad smile—for all her pretty smiles had a shade of
sadness in them now—asked me to examine some old books that lay huddled
together on the shelf.
“It is singular,” she said, “but your name is written in some of these
books, and Zana is a very uncommon name. Would you like to see how it is
used?”
She took up a small, antique Bible, and after unclasping the cover of
sandal-wood, on which some sacred story was deeply engraved, placed it
open in my hands. On the fly-leaf was written, in a clear and very
beautiful hand,
“Clarence, Earl of Clare, to his wife Aurora.”
A date followed this, and lower down on the page was a register, in the
same bold writing, dated at the hamlet, some months after the
presentation lines were written. This was the register:
“Born, June ——, Zana, daughter of Clarence, Earl of Clare, and Aurora,
his wife.”
The book fell from my hands; I did not know its entire importance, or
what bearing it might have on my destiny, but my heart swelled with a
flood of gratitude that almost overwhelmed me. I had no idea of its
legal value, but the book seemed to me of inestimable worth. In it were
blended, in terms of honor, the names of my parents; how it came there I
did not ask.
Cora stooped down to recover the book, but I seized it first,
exclaiming, amid my sobs,
“It is mine—it is mine, Cora! Cora, I bless you—God will bless you for
giving me this great happiness.”
We went down to the lake, where Chaleco waited with the little boat. He
looked hard at me, as I came round the tiny cove, where he lay as if in
a cradle, rocking upon the bright waters as they flowed in and out,
forming ripples and ridges of diamonds among the white pebbles of the
beach.
“What is it, Zana?” he said, springing ashore, as Cora seated herself in
the boat, and interrogating me in a whisper on the bank. “You look sharp
set, like a hawk when it first sees its prey. What has happened up
yonder?”
I took the antique little Bible from under my shawl, and opening it at
the blank leaf, pointed out the writing.
He read it two or three times over, and then thrust the book into his
bosom. His face was thoughtful at first, but as he pondered over the
writing, muscle by muscle relaxed in his dark features, and at last they
broke forth in a blaze of the most eloquent triumph; his questions came
quick upon each other, like waves in a cataract.
“Where did you get that? Is it all? Who has had possession so long?
Speak, Zana, I must know more.”
“Why, is it so important?” I inquired, excited by his look and manner.
“Important! why, child”——but he checked himself, inquiring more
composedly how I came in possession of the book.
I told him how it had been pointed out by Cora. Without more
questioning, he stepped into the boat, and bade me follow him.
When we were all seated, and the boat was shooting pleasantly across the
lake, Chaleco began, in a quiet, indifferent manner, to converse with
Cora. At first she was shy and reluctant to answer him, but his manner
was so persuasive, his voice so winning, that it was impossible to
resist their charm. After awhile he glided into the subject of the book,
speaking of its antique binding, of the rare perfume which she might
have noticed in the precious wood, and he went on to explain that it was
used of old in the building of the Tabernacle. All this interested Cora
greatly, and when he began to wonder how this singular volume could have
found its way into the farmer’s dwelling, she commenced to conjecture
and question about the probabilities with more apparent earnestness than
himself.
“The old people might perhaps know,” she said. “Now I think of it, they
did tell me of some persons, a gentleman, lady and little child that
lived with them long ago—probably they left the book; but then, how came
Lord Clare’s name in it?”
“Yes, sure enough,” murmured Chaleco, cautious not to interrupt her.
“Besides, Lady Clare’s name was not Aurora, and he never would have
lived here with that beautiful hunting-seat only five miles off, you
know.”
“That is quite true,” acquiesced Chaleco, while I sat still, listening
keenly to every word.
“You see,” continued the young girl, quite animated on the subject, “you
see how impossible it is that the writing means anything; but it is in
other books—that is, names are written in them, Clarence sometimes,
sometimes Aurora, now and then, both names; but, Zana, I have never
found that but once.”
Chaleco fell into thought, and the oars hung listlessly in his hands for
some minutes. At last he spoke again, but on indifferent subjects, about
the lightness of the air, and the beautiful, silvery glow that shimmered
over the waters. But once in a while he would quietly revert to the book
again, till I became impressed with its importance to a degree that made
me restless for more information.
After sailing around and across the lake for several hours, we drew up
at a little island scarcely half a mile across, that lay near the centre
of the lake, green as a heap of emeralds, notwithstanding the season was
advanced, and embowered by cedar and larch trees, with the richest and
most mossy turf I ever trod on, carpeting it from shore to shore.
Chaleco brought forth a basket of provisions from his boat, and bade us
wander about while he prepared our dinner. We waited to see him strike
fire from two flint stones that he gathered from the bank, and kindle a
quantity of dry sticks that lay scattered beneath the trees. When he had
spitted a fowl, which, gipsy like, he preferred to cook himself after
the sylvan fashion, we went away, and sat down under a clump of larch
trees, sadly and in silence, as was natural to persons whose thoughts
turned on a common and most painful subject.
I had resolved, there and then, to make my last appeal to the infatuated
child. She must have guessed this from my silence and the gravity of my
face, for she became wordless as myself, and as I glanced anxiously in
her eyes they took the sullen, obstinate expression of one prepared to
resist, and, if driven to it, defy.
We sat down together upon the grass. The delicate green foliage of the
larches quivered softly over us, and the brown leaves of some trees that
had felt the frost, rustled through the air and spotted the turf as with
the patterns in a carpet. We remained a long time gazing on these
leaves, in sad silence, but holding each other by the hand, as was our
habit when little children. My heart was full of those dear old times;
it killed me to think that they were gone forever—that again on this
earth Cora and I could never be entire friends, friends between whom no
subject is forbidden, no respect lost. When I thought of this, and knew
that, the impediment lay in my heart as much as it could in her conduct,
the future for us both seemed very hopeless. I can hardly describe the
feelings that actuated me. Perhaps they arose from the evil felt in my
own person, the result of a step like that which Cora had taken,
entailed by my mother. True, the cases were not alike; my poor gipsy
mother had not sinned consciously; no high moral culture had prepared
her to resist temptation; no fond parent graced her with his love; but
her act had plunged me, her innocent child, into fatal troubles that
must haunt me though life.
It is possible, I say, that these thoughts prevented me feeling all the
charity that would have been kind for the poor girl at my side; perhaps,
and this is most probable, I could not forgive the companionship of her
error, for it is a terrible trial to feel that one you cannot entirely
respect is preferred to yourself. In striving thus to analyze the
feelings that made me drop Cora’s hand for a time as we sat silently
together, one thing was certain, I did not cordially love her with the
affection of former years. Still, feelings swelled in my heart stronger
and more faithful than love—gratitude, and my solemn promise to the good
father; compassion for her, not unmixed, but powerful enough to have
commanded any sacrifice; a firm desire to wrest her from the man who had
wronged us both; all these motives influenced and urged me on to rescue
that poor girl, if human eloquence and human will could accomplish it.
I attempted to speak, but my throat was parched and my faculties all lay
dead for the moment; but struggling courageously with myself, I took her
hand, pressing it between my own cold palms; “Cora,” I said, still in a
whisper, for my voice would not come, “have you thought all this over?
will you go with me to your father? Remember, love, he is ill and may
not live.”
The hand began to tremble in mine, but she turned her face away.
“Let the subject drop,” she said, in a voice low and full of pain, like
mine; “it is of no use talking, I will not leave him. It would kill us
both; I should perish on the way.”
Now my voice returned—my heart swelled—words of persuasion, of reason,
rose eloquently to my lips. I reasoned, I entreated, I portrayed the
disgrace of her present position, prophesied the deeper shame and
anguish sure to follow. I described the condition of her father in words
that melted my own heart and flooded my face with tears. I prostrated
myself before her, covering her dimpled and trembling hands with my
tears, but all in vain. My passion was answered with silence or
smothered monosyllables. She suffered greatly; even in the excitement of
my own feelings I was sure of that. At length she broke from me, and
rushed off toward the beach, evidently determined to protect herself
from my importunity by the presence of Chaleco.
I had no heart to follow her, but went away in another direction,
walking rapidly toward the opposite extremity of the island.