THE ISLAND COVE.
As I neared a tiny cove that shot up like a silver arrow into the green
turf, I was surprised to find the gay streamers of a pleasure boat
floating over the rushes that edged the cove. With my tearful eyes and
flushed countenance, I was in no condition to meet strangers, and turned
to retrace my steps, heart-sick, and at the moment recoiling from the
sight of anything human. Scarcely had I walked twenty paces, when
footsteps followed me, and some one called me by name. I looked around
and saw Mr. Upham coming up from the boat. I would not appear to fly
from this man, though my heart rose against him in detestation.
“Zana,” he said, approaching me more slowly after I paused, and speaking
with forced cheerfulness, “how came you here, of all places in the
world; are you the goddess of this little island—a fairy? In the name of
everything beautiful, explain this meeting?”
I did not at first reply; indeed it was difficult to account for my
presence thus alone on a remote spot never visited perhaps once a year.
Important, as I felt secrecy to be, I could not speak of Chaleco or
explain anything regarding Cora, whose position, above all things, must
be kept from a man so intimate with the Clares. I attempted to answer in
his own light way.
“The spirits of air and water do not offer themselves so readily, sir; I
came from the little public house yonder, in a very common-place boat.”
“Then you are alone?” he questioned, with a quick sparkle of the eye,
that filled me with courage rather than terror.
“At present, yes.”
“And how long have you been in Scotland, may I presume to inquire?”
“A very short time.”
“But you are not all this distance from home alone?”
“No, I have friends with me.”
“Oh, yes, old Turner, I suppose. And now, sweet Zana, let me say how
happy, how very happy I am to meet you again; it seems like a dream.”
It was impossible that I should not feel the deprecating humility of his
manner; besides, what had I ever received from this man but kindness?
His only fault was that of having offered love, protection, honorable
marriage, when all others of his race shrunk from me as if I had been a
leper. Still there was aversion in my heart; and I walked on, but not in
the direction of our boat. He followed me.
“Can you forgive it, Zana, that I am still true;—that I cannot cease to
love you?”
“It is not a crime to love any one,” I answered, touched by his
earnestness. “I do not scorn, but am grateful for all kindness!”
“Then you will listen to me?—you will yet be mine? I will protect you,
Zana, in the face of all these haughty Clares. I am now independent.”
“It cannot be,” I said, firmly, but not with the austere repulsion of
former days. “I shall never love—never marry—my destiny is fixed.”
“Oh, Zana,” he said, “why do you repulse me thus? What have I done to
deserve it? Have not all others forsaken you?”
“Alas! yes!” I said, weeping.
“Have they not treated you worse than a Russian serf or negro slave,
while I have always been firm in my devotion, true as heaven itself in
my love? Is this love at such times nothing, that you cast it so
scornfully away?”
“I do not cast it away scornfully, but am grateful, very grateful; still
it is impossible that I should ever love you, or become your wife.”
“Tell me why, Zana!”
“Because I have no power over the affections of my own heart; they are
the only tyrants I cannot overcome,” I said.
“But give me time; only endure my presence,” he persisted, seating
himself by me so gently that I was almost unconscious of the act; “these
tyrant affections must yield to the power of love like mine.”
I shook my head and made a motion to rise, but he held me down with a
gentle pressure of his hand on my arm.
“Can you—can you know, my Zana, for _I will_ call you mine this once—can
you know how much love you are trampling to death?”
“I only know that no one feeling in my heart answers to it.”
“And yet, oh, heavens, how I have lavished the first fruits of my life
away upon this one hope! all other women were as nothing—to me. The
proud Estelle, before whom Irving bends like a slave, and Morton in
infatuation, could not win a thought from a heart too full of you for
anything else. And little Cora, whose beauty and childish grace divided
Irving’s heart with Estelle, was to me vapid and uninteresting, because
my soul had room for but one idol, and that idol Zana!”
I grew heart-sick and felt myself turning pale. Was it true?—could the
heart of man be so vile? George Irving the slave of Estelle, and Cora,
my poor Cora!—
“You speak of Irving,” I said, in a voice that shook, though I made
great efforts to compose it; “and of Estelle—tell me—tell—where is that
lady?”
“What! are you ignorant that she is in Scotland, she and her mother,
consoling the countess, and only waiting for the decencies of mourning
to be over, for the wedding?”
A faintness seized me. Poor, poor Cora, this would kill her, it was
killing me. Estelle Irving, _her_ husband, the thought was a pang such
as I had never felt before; to Cora I could have given him up, but
Estelle, from my soul I abhorred her.
“You are silent, Zana,” said my companion. “You will reflect on what I
have said. Remember it is not the penniless tutor who would have divided
his crust with you before, who asks your hand now; I possess
expectations—certainties that even the haughty Estelle would not reject.
The Marston Court living is one of the best in that part of England; I
have already taken orders.”
“But I thought the Marston Court living was promised to Mr. Clark, poor
Cora’s father,” I exclaimed.
“By Lord Clare, yes; but his sister, you know, has her own ideas, and
since that unpleasant affair of the daughter, she refuses to think of
it.”
“Oh, Cora! Cora! what have you done!” I cried, weeping bitterly; then
struck with sharp indignation, I looked up, dashing the tears aside.
“And that lady—that vile, unwomanly countess—she dares to punish a good
old man for the sins of his child, while she urged _him_, the traitor,
who tempted her to ruin, into a position which compels him to abandon
her.”
“Of whom do you speak?” he asked, almost in a whisper, so deeply had my
desperate words excited him.
“You know—you know!” I said, breaking forth afresh;
“why force me to utter that detested name?”
He took my hand. I did not withdraw it, for, at the moment, even his
sympathy was welcome. Sighing deeply, he lifted it to his lips. I arose,
determined to leave.
“You will not leave me thus without answer, without hope?” he said.
“I have but one answer to give, and no hope,” was my firm reply.
He looked at me an instant, growing pale as he gazed.
“You love another still, and believe he loves you,” he said, with a slow
curve of the lip.
“Hold!” I cried, stung with shame at the remembrance that I had once
confessed this love and gloried in it; “I do not love another. It is not
in my nature to give anything but detestation to treachery and vice like
his.”
“Then spite of your words I _will_ hope,” he cried, seizing my hand and
kissing it.
Before I could remonstrate he was gone, disappearing down a grassy
hollow that sloped to the little cave where his boat was lying. As he
sprang into the boat, I saw, out upon the lake, lying sleepily on the
water, another shallop in which a single fisherman sat with a rod in his
hand. His face was toward me, and it seemed that he was gazing upon the
spot where I stood. How long this solitary individual had been upon the
lake I could not conjecture, but my heart told me who it was; the
nearness of his presence held me in a sort of fascination, and, like one
in a dream, I saw the boat glide toward the shore, and Irving spring
out—a moment, and we stood face to face.
We gazed at each other breathlessly. He was much excited, and looked
upon me with an air of impetuous reproach.
“It is you, then, and here, Zana—I did not believe it—I would not
believe it even now, the whole thing seems false!”
“You did not expect to find me in this place, I can well believe,” was
the sarcastic reply that sprang to my lips.
“No,” he said passionately, “I did not; they told me you had fled from
home in the night; but that you would come here, and that I should find
you thus, the thought would have seemed sacrilege. Great heavens, is
there nothing trustworthy on earth?”
His passion confounded me. By his words one would have thought me an
offender, not him. I did not know how to reply, his air and speech were
so full of accusation. He saw this and came close to me.
“Zana,” he said, in a voice rich with wounded tenderness, “leave this
place; go back to Greenhurst, Turner will receive you as if this
miserable escapade had never been. This is no shelter for you; these
honest old people up yonder are too good for the cheat practised upon
them.”
“Cheat—I—explain, sir! your language is incomprehensible,” I cried,
breathless with indignation. “If there is imposition, let him that
practises it answer; this air of reproof ill becomes you, sir!”
“I may have been too rude, Zana, but the shock, the pain of finding you
here—for I saw all that passed on the island, and hoping still that
distance had deceived me, came to convince myself.”
“Convince yourself of what?” I questioned.
“Of your unworthiness, Zana.”
His voice sunk as he said this, and tears came into his eyes.
“Of my unworthiness?” I said, burning with outraged pride. “In what one
thing have I been proven unworthy?”
“Are you not here?—have you not fled from your natural protectors?”
“And your mother has allowed a doubt on this question to rest on me,
even with you!” I said, calmed by the very force of my indignation.
“Listen; I left home because it was the only way to save my benefactors
from being turned helpless upon the world by your countess mother. I
left secretly, well knowing that if those good people knew the price I
paid for their tranquillity, they would have begged on the highway
rather than consent to my departure. I had one other friend in the
world, an elderly man of my mother’s people. He is a safe and wise
person, and with him I go to the tribe from whence my mother fled when
the curse of your uncle’s love fell upon her.”
“But this is not the way to Spain. The man who has just left you cannot
be that friend,” he answered; “how came you here with him in the hills
of Scotland?”
“I came to save”——
I broke off suddenly, struck with the imprudence of informing him that
my object was to rescue Cora from his power.
“To save whom? oh, speak, Zana! let me believe your object here a worthy
one.”
This was strange language. Had he not guessed already that my love for
poor Cora Clark had brought me to the highlands? Such hypocrisy was
sublime; I almost found admiration for it rising in my heart.
“See,” I cried, pointing out Chaleco, who stood at some distance on the
shore, “yonder is the man with whom I left Greenhurst, and with whom I
leave these hills in less than twenty-four hours.”
He stepped a pace forward, searching Chaleco with his eyes. The cloud
went softly out from his face, and when he turned a look of confidence
had supplanted it.
“Zana, is this the truth?”
“Why should I tell you aught but the truth?” I answered.
He looked eagerly into my eyes; his own flashed; his face took the
expression of one who forms a sudden decision.
“And you leave to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“And for Granada?”
“For Granada, I suppose.”
“With that man, and no other?”
“With no other _man_,” I answered, laying an emphasis on the word man;
but he did not seem to heed it as I expected.
“Zana, one word more—answer from your soul—do you love me yet?”
Outraged and insulted, I drew myself up. “How dare you, the promised
husband of Estelle, the lover of—of”——Passion stifled me, I could not
utter Cora’s name.
He seemed surprised.
“I am not the promised husband of Estelle; I love no woman living but
yourself, Zana.”
“Me?—can you say that here—here, and not shudder at the treason?”
“I can say it anywhere, Zana.”
He looked sincere, his voice was sweet as truth, and so like it that a
thrill of exquisite joy stirred my whole system as I listened.
“You believe me, Zana?”
I thought of Cora, and could not answer. Had he in truth ceased to love
her? Could villany so deep appear so honest? He mistook my silence and
went on.
“Forgive me, Zana, if I read my answer in that bright face. You love me
as I love you.”
I made an effort to contradict him, but the words died in my throat, and
he went on.
“It is true, Lady Catherine desires me to marry another; but while you
love me I never will. True she would cast me off and leave me adrift on
the world for seeking you as I have this day; but I love you, Zana;
speak but the word, and I will take you by the hand, lead you to her
presence, and proclaim you my wife.”
“Not me—not me; there is another whom you must so proclaim.”
He did not heed me, but went on impetuously as at first.
“My mother may disown me; thank God, she cannot forever disinherit; we
may have struggles; but what then? we have youth, strength, ability and
love to conquer all. Come with me now, and in ten minutes all the laws
under heaven cannot separate us.”
“In ten minutes?” I questioned, thinking of poor Cora with painful
self-abnegation, for never was a heart tortured like mine; “ah, if ten
little minutes can redeem your obligations to her, why wait? make this
other your wife to-day.”
“Can you counsel this, Zana? Even you desire me to wed a woman whom I
neither love nor respect?”
The blood began to burn in my veins. How dare he speak thus of the poor
girl whose sole fault was her fatal affection for himself? These
indignant thoughts sprung to my lips, but as I was about to utter them,
Chaleco came up. Irving saw him, and addressed me hurriedly once more.
“Speak, Zana, before your strange guardian comes. I give up all—I offer
all; speak, and you are my wife.”
“Never!” I exclaimed, almost fiercely, “never, so help me heaven, will I
marry a man whose honor binds him to another, and that other”——
“Enough!” he exclaimed, wringing my hand hard, and dropping it; “you
never loved me; farewell!”
He turned away and darted around a neighboring rock. When Chaleco came
up his boat was far out on the lake, and I sat watching it with the
heaviest heart that ever cumbered a human bosom.
“What does this mean? Who was the young man who left you just now?” said
Chaleco, looking after the boat suspiciously, as he entered.
“It was George Irving; he wished to make me his wife”——
I could not go on, my voice was choked by sobs.
“His wife?” said the gipsy, with a scornful laugh; “so he has found out
the old books, has seen the register, knows the road to save
himself—cunning young fellow!”
I looked at Chaleco in astonishment; his hateful laugh annoyed me
terribly.
“What is the meaning of this, these old books? how could they affect him
or his offer? he knew before that I was Lord Clare’s child?”
“But he did not know before that you are Lord Clare’s heiress, a
countess in your own right—one of the richest women in England?”
“Are you mad, Chaleco, raving mad?”
“Almost—but with joy, my Gitanilla. Listen! your mother was married to
Lord Clare. I do not speak of the Alhambra ceremony, but here, legally
by the laws of Scotland, under which you were born. In this country, a
man has but to live with a woman, acknowledge her as his wife, before
witnesses, and she _is_ a legal wife, her children legal heirs before
any court in Great Britain. We have this proof here, in Lord Clare’s own
writing, in the old people with whom he left your mother.”
“And how did you know of this law, Chaleco?”
“Zana, there is not a thing that could affect you which I have not
studied to the centre. Half my life has been given up that you might
prosper; and now, my beautiful countess, comes our triumph.”
With these triumphant words Chaleco went back to his fire again.