CHALECO’S TRIUMPH.
We were in London, Chaleco, Cora and myself. The gipsy chief sat at a
small table reading some pages of manuscript that had been a little
before brought to him. Cora lay upon the sofa, with one white hand under
her still whiter cheek, gazing with her great mournful eyes upon the dim
wall opposite.
I was watching Chaleco; the burning fire in his eyes, the savage curl of
triumph that now and then revealed his teeth, as we sometimes see in a
noble-blooded dog, when his temper is up. This expression deepened and
burned as he read on, leaf after leaf, to the end. He did not then
relinquish the paper, but turned back, referring to passages and
comparing them with others, sometimes remaining whole minutes pondering
over a single line.
At last he laid the manuscript down, dashed his hand upon it with a
violence that made the table shake, and turned his flashing eyes on me.
“It is so, Zana; it is so!”
“What is it you have been reading to yourself?” I inquired.
“Wait a minute—let me think it all over. Well, this paper is from the
best solicitor known in the London courts. I laid your case before him,
the Bible, some letters that I found among other books at the old sheep
farmer’s, and my own knowledge.”
“Well,” I said, “what does it all amount to?”
“Nothing but this, my little Zana, Aurora’s child, the scouted,
insulted, outraged gipsy girl is, beyond all peradventure, Countess of
Clare.”
“And Lady Catherine?”
“Is Lady Catherine still, nothing more.”
“But her son?”
“Oh,” replied Chaleco, with a hoarse laugh, “he is the pitiful dangler
to a woman’s apron strings that he ever was.”
My blood rose, I could not endure to hear the man I had loved so deeply
thus spoken of.
“Hush!” I said, looking at Cora, anxious to save her feelings rather
than my own, “Irving does not deserve this; he is no idler, whatever you
may think.”
I had expected to see Cora angry, as I had been, by this scornful
mention of her lover, but she lay perfectly still, unimpressed and
listless, without a flush or a glance to prove the wounded feelings that
were torture to me. This indifference, so unlike her usual
impulsiveness, surprised us both. But for her paleness and the blue
shadows under her great eyes, we could not have guessed how much she had
suffered since our departure from Scotland. No sick child ever resigned
itself more passively to a mother’s arms than she had yielded herself to
us, and no child ever pined and wasted away as she did. All her bloom
was gone. Cold and delicate as wax was the hue of her countenance. The
azure shadows I have spoken of, and the veins threading her temples,
gave the only tinge of color visible in a face rosy as the dawn only a
few weeks before.
She did not seem to hear us, though this was the first time we had
mentioned her lover’s name when she was by. Even Chaleco seemed to feel
compassion for the poor child, and dropped his voice, drawing closer to
me.
“She does not heed,” he said, “but still it seems like hurting her when
we speak of that young villain.”
“Then do not speak of him,” I rejoined, sharply; “where is the
necessity?”
“But we must speak of them—they have possession of your rights.”
“What are those rights?”
“A title—an immense property—power in this proud country—power to help
the poor Caloes,” he answered with enthusiasm—“the power to redeem your
mother’s name among the haughty souls that reviled her—to give back her
memory to the gipsies of Granada pure as the purest among their women.”
“But they murdered her—innocent as she was, they murdered her!” I cried,
shuddering and cold with memories that always froze me to the heart.
A gloomy look stole over Chaleco’s face; his hand fell loosely down, and
he whispered huskily, as if to convince himself:
“I could not help it; she gave herself up. They all thought the stain of
his unmarried lips was on her forehead. She would die—it was _he_ that
killed her, not the gipsies—never say it again while you live, Zana,
never.”
I could not answer, but felt myself turning white and cold. He saw it,
and grasped my hand, crying out with fierce exultation:
“But she is avenged, and now that we have the power, this proud woman
and vile boy shall bite the dust, Zana. We will strip them, humble them,
trample them beneath our gipsy feet. Aurora shall be twice avenged.”
“Let me think,” I said, drearily pressing my forehead to still the pain
there; “I have tasted this revenge once, and it was terrible; when such
fruit falls, dare we shake the vine again?”
“Again and again,” was the fierce cry, “till power itself fails. Are you
thinking of mercy, child?”
“I am thinking of many things,” was my vague answer; “but God will help
me.”
Chaleco sneered.
“He has helped us, if you choose to fancy it,” he said; “are not her
enemies in the dust—have you not revenge in your grasp?”
“No,” I said, filled with the holy spirit my soul had invoked, “no,
Chaleco, God gives revenge to no human being; it belongs to him. The
memory of my dead father is before me—never again will I wrestle with
these weak, human hands for power which belongs to omnipotence alone.”
Chaleco looked at me sternly; a dark frown was in his eyes.
“If I thought this,” he exclaimed, grasping the paper as if about to
rend it.
He stopped, and held the paper motionless between his hands. Cora had
risen from the sofa, and was leaning forward, looking at us.
“You learned that of my father, Zana,” she said, while a tender smile
stole over her lips; “if anything troubles you, go back to him; I will.”
I was touched to the heart by the pathos and sweetness of these words.
My soul yearned towards the suffering child, and that instant the
resolve which had been floating mistily through my brain took form and
shape. If the disputed estates proved to be mine, I would so endow that
gentle girl, that Irving would rejoice in the chance of redeeming his
prosperity by a marriage with her. Her fame at least I might partially
restore.
“You are right, my Cora; I did learn all that is good in me from that
noble-hearted man. You and I should never have left his side.”
“I know it,” she answered, sighing heavily, and sinking back to the sofa
again; “you can go back, as for me”——
Cora broke off and began to weep. I was glad of that, poor thing. Since
the first day she had not wept in my presence after our adventure in the
Highlands. I left her unmolested, and went on talking with Chaleco more
connectedly than we had yet conversed. In a little time he convinced me
that my birth was legitimate, and my claims as heiress to Lord Clare
would scarcely admit of dispute. The chain of evidence was complete.
Though driven away for a little time, Chaleco had hovered around
Greenhurst, till assured that I had found a protector, then he lingered
in England under various disguises, till I was safe under the roof from
which my mother had fled. More than once he had penetrated to my sick
chamber, where I lay delirious with fever, when I was by chance left
alone, or when the nurse slept at night. Again and again he had visited
England after that, assuring himself still of my welfare and identity.
In short, from the time of my mother’s death he had never lost sight of
me, and up to that period the evidence of old Turner, his wife, and the
Scotch farmer, left no thread wanting in the tissue of my claim.
“And if this is so, what steps must be taken?” I inquired.
“They are taken,” answered the gipsy, “Lady Catherine has been notified,
so has her son.”
“Well, have they returned any reply?”
“The lady is here.”
“In London?”
“Yes, in London.”
“Did the mother come alone?” I inquired, observing that Cora had risen
to her elbow, and was eagerly regarding us.
Feeling that, like myself, she was anxious to know if Irving was in town
and was with the family, I asked the question, half in kindness to her,
half to still my own craving desire for knowledge on this point.
“Lady Catherine, her son, and Mr. Morton came together.”
Cora uttered a faint cry, and starting up began to pace the room, as if
the mention of that name had stung her energies into painful activity.
Still I was not fully answered.
“And is no other lady with them?” I persisted.
“And what if there is, how should you care?” was the answer he gave,
accompanied by a look so penetrating that I shrunk from it.
Cora also turned and gazed at me with her great, tearful eyes, as a
gazelle might look at the hunter that had chased him down. I felt the
whole force of that appealing look, but went on asking questions,
determined to comprehend everything, and then act as my own soul should
teach.
“And did they decide on anything?” I inquired.
“The mother wishes to contest—the son advises her to yield; their
friends, as usual, are on both sides.”
“And so nothing is settled?”
“Nothing.”
“I will go to them myself; rest of good cheer, Cora, you shall not
always be so miserable.”
She gave me a wild glance.
“Be tranquil, and trust me, Cora,” I said, full of my project for her
happiness; “it is for you this good fortune has come.”
“There is no good fortune for me on earth,” cried the poor girl,
clasping her hands, “don’t, Zana, don’t smile so; it will set me to
hoping impossible things.”
“Nothing is impossible,” I said, smothering the selfish regrets that
would, spite of my efforts, rise against the sacrifice I meditated. “To
the strong heart there can be no impossibility—here there _shall_ be
none.”
Cora came close to me, smiling so mournfully and shaking her head, as I
can fancy Ophelia to have done, with a world of sorrow and one little
glow of hope in her poor face.
“Perhaps he thought that I was within hearing, and so did all that to
tease me.”
As this soft whisper dropped from her lips, the determination of
self-sacrifice grew strong within me. Had we stood at the altar, I
think, at the moment, I should have given Irving up to her; she was so
trustful and helpless. I seized upon the idea; better far was it that
she should fancy anything rather than believe in his faithlessness after
all that I intended for her.
“It was all unfeeling pleasantry, I dare say; careless flirtations, that
meant nothing.”
“Do you really think so?” she inquired, stealing closer and closer to my
side.
“I do indeed think that he has no real love for any one but you, Cora.”
“In truth?—in solemn truth, Zana?—oh, Zana, Zana, say that _you_ cannot
believe it again.”
“I do not believe in his love for—for that other person,” I said,
shrinking from the utterance of Estelle’s name.
“Solemnly, you think this, Zana?”
“Solemnly.”
She drew a deep breath, looked at me so long that I could watch the joy
as it broke and deepened in her violet eyes, and then, satisfied that I
was sincere, sunk back to the sofa, with the most heavenly smile I ever
saw beaming over her face. I sat down by her; she wove her arms around
me and pressed her cheek to mine, trembling softly with that exquisite
happiness which follows a crushed suspicion against those we love. I
could not resist a pang of jealous envy, for it is much easier to make
sacrifices to one that suffers, than to witness the joy which our
self-bereavement gives. The contrast between the rich swell of happiness
that broke in sighs from her lips, and the heavy sense of desolation
that lay upon my poor heart, made me long to put her away.
But soon I felt her kisses wandering amid my hair and over my forehead,
mingled with whispers of gratitude and smiles of hope. After all, Cora
loved me, and I was making her happy. Most solemnly did I believe all
that I had said of Irving. That he did not love Estelle I was certain;
that self-interest had induced his professions to me I was equally
convinced, for Chaleco’s words had fastened upon me when he said that
Irving had sought me because he knew of the evidence I had obtained
regarding my own legitimacy; and Cora, when I asked if she had mentioned
the register which she found to any one beside myself, answered, “only
to him;” but the tutor, Mr. Upham, had read them long ago, when he
lodged a season at the hill-side cottage.
Cora had told me this on the day we left the Highlands, and from that
time I looked upon Irving’s pursuit of myself as a mercenary effort to
retrieve his own desperate fortunes by a marriage with his uncle’s
heiress. Mr. Upham, too; his interested pursuit was now fully explained;
but for him I had scarcely time for a contemptuous thought, so resolute
had my heart become on the sacrifice of its last hope. With these
impressions, I could not believe that Cora had any rival in his heart,
whatever his interests might dictate. So I soothed her, and strengthened
the confidence that was bringing the roses back to her cheek, even then.
Poor thing, she trusted me so implicitly, and her weary heart was so
glad of rest after its anguish, that she believed like a child.
That night, I wrote to Mr. Clark, saying that his child was found, and
that she trusted very soon to tell him her love in the dear parsonage.
With regard to him, also, I had my benevolent dreams. There was the
Marston Court living. If Lady Catherine had no right to the estate, her
power to appoint an incumbent to the living did not exist, but was mine;
and dear Mr. Clark, God bless him, how my heart swelled at the thought
of rescuing him from his present dependence, by appointing him rector
instead of the man whose character had degraded the holy office! I went
into no details, but wrote a cheerful letter, full of hope, determined
to wait for the unfolding of events before I explained everything.