SELF-ABNEGATION.
Lady Catherine went out, and I was alone, trembling, helpless, filled
with desolation—the poor, poor gipsy girl. What had Cora done that she
should be made so happy, and I so miserable? I sat down stupefied with
the blank darkness that had fallen around my existence. The estate, the
pomp, the rank that I had given up were nothing; but Irving—oh, how my
poor heart quivered and shrunk from the thought that he was another’s
forever and ever. In all the wide world, that desolate barranca in
Granada seemed the only spot gloomy enough to conceal misery like mine!
A full hour I remained with my elbow upon the little breakfast-table
seated among the cushions, unmindful of their luxurious softness as if
they had been so many rocks heaped near me. I could only feel dumbly
that with my own hand I had cast all hope from me. This thought revolved
itself over and over in my mind, I could neither change nor shake it
off.
At last the door opened and Lady Catherine came in, followed by her son.
He was greatly changed. All the bloom of boyhood had settled into a look
of thoughtful manliness; his eyes, almost sad, were deeper and more
piercing; his manner, grave; traces of anxiety lingered about his eyes
and mouth, making one firm and leaving shadows beneath the other. He
came close to me and rested one hand on the table. I did not rise, but
sat trembling and helpless beneath the reproachful pride in his glance.
The apathy had left me; my heart swelled with the painful joy of his
presence, and every nerve thrilled back its sympathy.
“My mother has told me of your proposal, Zana,” he said, in a clear, but
not untroubled voice; “your wish is a generous one. The rights you would
surrender are great, but I will not accede to this proposal.”
I started so violently that one of the Sèvres cups fell to the ground. A
cry almost broke from my lips. This reprieve from my own wishes filled
me with joy.
“Why, why?” I could not ask these questions aloud; they fell from my
lips in broken whispers.
“Because I will not despoil you of your birthright—because I do not love
the lady whom you propose for my wife.”
“Not love her, Mr. Irving; forbear!”
I could not go on; his mother’s presence checked me; but once more my
heart was filled with indignation at his audacity.
“Then you refuse?” I said, rising—“you refuse to render this poor
justice to one who loves, who has”——
Again I checked myself. Lady Catherine was close to the table. Irving
listened patiently, and kept his eyes fastened on my face, as if asking
some further explanation.
“It is possible,” I said, “that you think lightly of my claims, and thus
reject the sacrifice I would make.”
“No,” he said, “I am satisfied that your claims to the estate are valid;
only this morning I joined my mother’s legal counsel in advising her to
yield possession at once.”
“And this inheritance? Cora, too? Will you cast them both aside because
it is Zana who offers them?”
He shook his head with a grave smile.
“The inheritance I can easily relinquish; it is not large enough to
purchase a heart like mine, Zana.”
“George, George, reflect,” said Lady Catherine, who had been listening
with keen anxiety; “the girl is beautiful; her mother’s family had noble
blood in it.”
“Mother, hush; I will work, but not sell myself for your benefit.”
I arose, shocked by the deep hypocrisy of the man. His look, his voice,
his words, how noble they were! His actions—the household traitor—how
could he compel that face to look so firm and noble in its sin?
“Madam,” I said, turning to the mother, “persuade your son, for on no
other terms can my father’s estate remain with you or yours.”
She bent her head, but did not speak. The woman seemed subdued; all her
sarcastic spirit had left her. At last she laid her hand on Irving’s
arm.
“George, George, remember there is no other way.”
He turned upon her, smiling.
“Mother, we lived honorably and well before my uncle’s death; the same
means are still left to us.”
“But the title, the estates, I cannot give them up. Will you make no
sacrifice to save me from this degradation?”
“Anything, mother, that an honorable man should; but to barter myself,
no.”
I saw that Lady Catherine was becoming angry, and spoke,
“Madam, when I resign the inheritance, your son knows the terms. Take
counsel—take time for thought. To-morrow, at this hour, I will come
again, alone as now; that will be our last interview.”
My words struck home. Lady Catherine turned white as death, and by the
glitter in her eyes I saw a storm of rage mustering; I did not remain to
witness it. Irving held open the door for me. Our eyes met as I passed
out, and his seemed full of reproachful sorrow. Why could I not hate
that man?—why not hurl back scorn for treachery?
Cora was asleep when I entered the little room which we occupied
together. It was the sweetest slumber I ever witnessed—so calm, so full
of infinite quietude. Worn out by the harassing sorrows of her
situation, she had, up to the evening previous, been wakeful night and
day, but the few words I had so rashly uttered fell like dew upon her
eyelids, and all night long she had slept by my side tranquil as a bird
in its nest; in her hopeful serenity she had dropped away in dreams.
Thus I found her with a smile upon her lips, and a soft bloom warming
the cheeks that twelve hours before had been so pale.
My own words had done all this, and they were all a deception. I had
deceived myself, and worse, worse a thousand times, had misled her also.
How could I tell her this?—how break up the exquisite calm of that
repose with my evil tidings, for evil I now felt them to be?
The sunlight fell through a half-closed shutter, kindling up the golden
tresses of her hair, as they fell over the arm folded under her cheek,
and lay in masses on the crimson cushion of the sofa. I sat down by her,
watching those sun gleams as they rose brighter and brighter toward her
forehead. They fell at last upon her eyelids, which began to quiver; the
dark brown lashes separated, and with a sleepy murmur the girl awoke.
“Oh, you have come,” she said, flinging her arms around my neck; “dear,
dear Zana, I have been dreaming.”
“Dream on!” I answered, sadly; “if I only had the power to dream also!”
“Why, what is the matter, Zana, your eyes are full of tears?” she cried,
looking eagerly in my face, and kissing it with passionate devotion.
“Where have you been?”
“I have been to see him, Cora.”
She held her breath, and looked at me—oh, how pleadingly—as if I could
change the color of her fate, poor child.
“Well, Zana.”
I could not endure that voice, those eyes, but flung my arms around her,
and held her close to my bosom as I answered—
“Forget him, Cora. Let us both forget him. He is an ingrate, a”——
I could not go on, for her cold lips were pressed wildly to mine, and
she called out—
“Don’t, don’t, Zana—don’t speak such words of him!”
“He does not deserve this interposition, Cora; you cannot guess how much
I was ready to sacrifice that you and he might be happy.”
“And he would not listen?” she asked, falling sadly back from my arms.
“Still you thought he loved me, and were so certain of it only last
night.”
“But I think it no longer. God help you, my poor Cora—with all this
inheritance—and I offered it—I have no power to make him feel.”
“And you tried to bribe him into loving me; that was unkind, Zana.”
“No, Cora; other reasons which you do not comprehend influenced what I
did, as well as a wish to make you happy. His mother, I think, would
have yielded, but he”——
“His mother, Zana—he has no mother.”
“In one sense, perhaps not; but Lady Catherine”——
“Lady Catherine.”
“Yes, Lady Catherine, is she not George Irving’s mother?” I cried,
surprised by her bewildered look and words.
“Yes, surely; but then what is George Irving to me, or Lady Catherine
either, save that she in some sort controls his fortunes?”
“Cora!” I almost shrieked, seizing her hands, “what is this? Who, who is
the man? Tell me it is not George Irving that you love, and I will fall
down and worship you.”
“Why, Zana, are you wild? How should I ever think of another, and he in
my heart always?”
“He—who? Speak, girl, or I shall indeed be wild!”
“You act very strangely, Zana. Only now you told me that you had seen
Mr. Morton, and talked with him; you gave so many painful hints about
him.”
I seized her hands again, and forced down the tremulous hope in my
heart.
“Cora, darling Cora,” I said, interrupting my words with quick gasps of
breath, that I had no power to stifle, “tell me clearly, use few words,
or my heart will break with this suspense. Was the man with whom you
left Greenhurst Henry Morton?”
My emotion terrified her. She grew pale, and struggled to free her
hands.
“You know it was; are you going crazy? My fingers—my fingers, you crush
them.”
“And it was Morton?”
“Yes—yes!”
“And you have no love for Irving? He never said, never hinted that he
wished you to love him?”
“He—no. Who ever put the idea into your head?”
I seized her in my embrace, and covered her forehead, her eyes, her
hair, with rapturous kisses. I knelt at her feet, and wrung her little
hand in my ecstasy till she cried out with the anguish.
“Kiss me, Cora, again, again; kneel down here, Cora, at my side, and
thank God as I do. We shall be happy, darling, so happy—my head reels
with the very thought of it—my heart is so full. Let me weep myself
still here—here on my knees, with my forehead in your lap. Cora, Cora,
it seems to me that I am dying!”
And now the tears came rushing up from the depths of my heart, and I lay
upon Cora’s lap, sobbing the agony of my old grief away, as a
half-drowned man lies upon the beach where the storm has tossed him. Oh,
how great was the wealth of my existence that moment. Irving did not
love another; he was mine, mine, all mine!
Chaleco came in and interrupted us. He inquired the cause of my emotion,
and I told him. The tiger that my first words brought to his eyes,
crouched and cowered beneath the energy of my entreaties to be freed
from the pledge I had given to bury myself with his tribe in Granada. In
passion like mine there is almost irresistible eloquence, and my soul
was burning with it. Perhaps I looked more like my mother, thus
enkindled and aroused.
“Zana,” he said, and the first tears I ever saw in his fierce eyes,
burned there like a diamond. “Zana, you ask a terrible thing. Like your
mother, I swore a vow to Papita. You love my enemy and hers; you cling
to him and cast the gipsy aside. But even better than that, I loved her
and her child. I give up my oath of vengeance. What is death, if
Aurora’s child may live and love?” Chaleco went out; afterwards I
remembered all the force of his words, but then my soul panted for
solitude and thought. I spent the night alone, sleepless and happy as
few mortals have the capacity of being on this earth.
I knew little, and cared nothing for the propriety of conventional life.
On the day before, I had promised to return for Lady Catherine’s final
answer to the proposal I had in my ignorance made. I went and inquired,
not for her, but for Irving.
He came down to receive me, looking pale and depressed. His reception
was cold, his look constrained.
To this day I cannot tell what passed between us during that interview.
All that was in my heart I poured forth. I remember his astonishment and
his rapture. But of what was said I have no distinct idea; all was a
whirl, a vortex of emotion.
A silence that seemed like heaven followed, and then we began to talk
more rationally. Oh, the exquisite happiness of that entire
confidence—the beautiful, beautiful joy of knowing that I was his
affianced wife, the only person he had ever loved! In the first sweet
outgush of confidence, I told him everything. He seemed shocked and
greatly surprised at Morton’s perfidy; but when I told him of Upham, and
the power he had exercised over our lives, by the cruel suspicions
instilled into my belief, his indignation was so mingled with sovereign
contempt of the man’s pretensions, that he laughed while denouncing him.
“Poor fool,” he said, “doubtless by some means he had obtained a
knowledge of your heirship during our residence at my uncle’s hunting
lodge, where we spent several seasons. He is a shrewd man, our new
rector. But Morton, I cannot think so badly of him. Believe me, Zana,
there is some explanation behind all this. Morton is a reserved, perhaps
irresolute man in some things, but I cannot think him base, though there
was a time when I thought otherwise.”
“And when was that?” I asked.
“It was rumored, Zana, that he had brought a companion with him to
Scotland. I heard of your disappearance from Greenhurst at the same
time, and believed you to be the inmate of that little farm-house. My
mother joined in that belief.”
“Poor Cora,” I said, “the odium of her fault seems all to rest on me,
her best friend.”
“Let us wait before we condemn my friend,” said Irving, generously. “In
his situation of unjust dependence may be found, perhaps, some excuse
for all this. Believe me, dear one, Morton is not a dishonorable man.”
“He is at any rate the rightful owner of Marston Court,” I answered;
“but with your leave, he shall only take possession of it as Cora’s
marriage portion.”
Irving smiled, and then we began to talk of ourselves again. He drew me
close to his side, bent his flushed face to mine, and whispered a
thousand sweet words that have little meaning, except to the one heart,
which receives them like drops of honey-dew. In our great happiness we
did not notice that the door had opened, and Lady Catherine stood in the
entrance coolly regarding us.
We arose together, his arm still around me, his flushed face becoming
serious and calm. “Mother,” he said, “receive Zana kindly, for this
morning she has promised to be my wife.”
“Your wife! and is there no other way?” faltered the haughty woman;
“must this sacrifice be made?”
“Sacrifice!” exclaimed Irving, looking down upon me with a glance of
proud affection; “why, mother, I have loved the child from the first
moment I saw her protecting that deer so bravely. It was this love which
rendered it impossible for me to marry another.”
The great love in my heart brought with it a gentle humility unknown to
my nature before. I withdrew myself from Irving’s arm, and went up to
his mother, blushing and with tears in my eyes.
“O, Lady Catherine, do not look so coldly on your son. Love me a little
for his sake.”
She reached forth her hand, drew me toward her, and with a regal bend of
the head, kissed my cheek.
“My son,” she said, resigning herself gracefully to the inevitable, “my
son, you see that a mother can make sacrifices, even though her child
may refuse them.”
Before Irving could express the gratitude that broke from his eyes at
this unexpected concession, Lady Catherine had withdrawn from the room.
Then I remembered how long my own stay had been, and hastened with
breathless shame to the hackney coach that still waited for me at the
door.
The day was beautiful, and I dismissed the carriage, resolved to walk
awhile before entering our lodgings. As I turned a corner a gentleman
passed me hurriedly, turned back, and spoke,
“Zana,” he cried—“Zana, I have met you at last; let me hope you are
disposed to recognize me as a friend, at least.”
I was too happy for indignation, otherwise his audacity would have met
with a sharp rebuke. Emboldened by this gentleness, he moved on at my
side, pouring forth a torrent of low-voiced protestations. A spirit of
mischief seized upon me, and I answered him with playful evasions. He
evidently was quite ignorant that the secret of my legitimacy, doubtless
so long known to himself, was in my possession.
“In a few days,” he said, impressively, “I shall be enabled to claim you
before the whole world. I have already taken orders, and am now going to
render Lady Clare my thanks for the Marston Court living.”
I felt a smile quivering on my lips; for the first time the
consciousness that my inheritance had endowed me with power, came with
force to my heart.
“It will be a useless visit,” I said, very quietly. “Lady Clare
withdraws the promise she has made. A man who has so long practised
deceit and falsehood, is no proper person to lead others on their way to
heaven. Let me answer you, Mr. Upham, the Marston Court Rectory will
receive another incumbent than yourself.”
He stood aghast, looking at me. “But the living is as good as mine
already. I have even notified the curate at Greenhurst to leave the
parsonage.”
“No doubt; but if he leaves Greenhurst it will most certainly be to take
possession of the Marston Court Rectory.”
Upham forced a laugh.
“You speak positively for Lady Clare!” he said.
“I speak simply for myself, Mr. Upham.”
That instant I reached the door of our lodgings and went in, leaving my
clerical friend in a bewildered state on the sidewalk.
I entered the little parlor, expecting to find Cora there alone, but to
my astonishment young Morton arose from the sofa where she was seated,
and came toward me, a little pale and anxious, but with more dignity
than I had ever witnessed in him before.
“Zana,” he said, “I have just come down from Scotland in search of this
dear runaway!”
I drew back, annoyed. Both his manner and words offended me.
“Oh, tell her, tell her at once!” cried Cora, springing up, with a face
like an April day, all flush, tears and smiles. “Tell her it was your
wife who ran away from you, like a naughty, wicked, jealous little
wretch, as she was. Zana, dear Zana, we were married all the time, but I
had promised him, and could not tell, you know, because he was quite
sure that Lady Catherine never would have given up any of the property,
if she found out that he had fallen in love with such a poor,
foolish-hearted little good-for-nothing as I was. There, Mr. Morton, do
sit down and tell her all about it. Remember she is Lady Clare now, the
best, most generous, the—the—well, well; no matter if I am wild, that
awful secret is off my heart; I feel like a bird. Oh, if I had but wings
to fly away and tell my blessed, blessed papa.”
Morton sat down upon the sofa, gathering that beautiful young wife to
his bosom, and hushing her into quiet with his silent caresses.
“It was wrong and cowardly, I know,” he said, “but we were both madly in
love, with no one to heed us. Lady Catherine was determined that I
should follow her to Scotland, where she promised to have papers
prepared, returning a portion of my old uncle Morton’s estate to me.
Separation seemed dreadful to us both. It was a wild, rash act; but I
persuaded Cora to come with me, forgetting all the evil that might
spring from concealment, and afraid of Lady Catherine’s displeasure, for
she seemed anxious for some excuse to delay the transfer. I persuaded
Cora to conceal our marriage, and stay quietly in the old farm-house,
till Lady Catherine’s caprices could no longer affect us; but my visits
were necessarily few, for some vague rumor of her presence in Scotland
reached Lady Catherine, and I was compelled to be cautious. The poor
child grew restless, sad, and at last doubtful of my integrity. She was
pining herself to death when you found her, and innocently completed her
belief in my faithlessness.”
“I had made up my mind to brave everything, and avow that she was my
wife, on the very day that Cora left Scotland. It was a desolate
reception that the old people gave me. Cora, I could feel for the
loneliness of your father, then.”
“Let us go—let us go to him!” cried Cora, starting up, “it will never be
quite heaven till we get home.”
“Not yet, wait a little, and we will all go together,” I said, turning
to leave the room, and without waiting for a reply, I stole away,
leaving those two young hearts with each other, too full of my own
exquisite happiness for anything but the selfishness of
solitude. * * * * *
We entered Greenhurst quietly, and after nightfall, Lady Catherine,
Cora, Moreton and myself. Irving was to follow us in a few days, but
Chaleco, to whom I had given all Papita’s gold for the use of his tribe,
remained behind. We drew up at the parsonage. The curtains of the parlor
were drawn apart, and sitting in the twilight within, was the shadowy
presence of a man stooping downward, in sorrow or thoughtfulness, as if
the position had become habitual.
Cora drew close to her husband, and by the faint light I could see her
eyes dilate and darken with excitement. She saw that shadowy presence
and struggled forward, pushing impotently at the carriage door with both
hands, and crying out—
“My father! my father!”
The shadow gathered itself suddenly up, and opening the window, called
out in a low, wild voice:—
“Who calls? who calls? did some one say father?”
The carriage door sprang open, Cora leaped to the ground, sped like a
bird up the walk, and disappeared in the porch. Directly, there came a
strange sound through the open window—mingled sobs, caresses, and holy
fragments of prayer, broken up with gushes of thanksgiving. Morton fell
back in the carriage. I saw him cover his face with both hands, and felt
that he trembled.
“Heaven forgive me!” he muttered “heaven forgive me the misery I have
caused this good man!”
I was looking toward the parlor. Mr. Clark had fallen back in his chair,
and Cora was bending over him. His face was like that of a glorified
saint. His lips moved, but gave forth nothing but broken smiles. Cora
fell forward, embracing his knees. Her beautiful face was uplifted like
Guido’s Hope, but with a shadow of penitent sorrow upon it.
“Father! father!”
He stooped forward and folded the sweet, tearful face to his bosom,
tenderly as the mother hushes her grieved infant.
“Bless thee, oh, my child! The God of heaven bless thee!”
Faithful to the holy type of Christianity, the good man was ready to
forgive with the first breath of concession, even without knowing the
extent of her fault.
“Father, you forgive us; see, it is my husband; I am very, very happy,
father.”
Weary with our long journey, and overcome with emotion, Cora flung her
arms around that honored neck; and just as her husband came up, fainted
quite away on her father’s bosom.
“Give her to me, sir,” said Morton, approaching the group, pale and
agitated; “I am her husband, and with her pray your forgiveness.”
The young husband faltered; the good man looked up, with every feature
of his face in commotion.
“Take her, then,” he said, placing his child in Morton’s arms; “I have
only blessings to give—tears and blessings for you both.”
Morton carried his wife to the dear old couch of white dimity, which
made my heart throb as I looked that way. A few moments restored her to
consciousness.
“It is Zana who brings us back—bless Zana, father!” she said, faintly.
“Zana,” he exclaimed, bending over me with touching solemnity, and
pressing both palms on my head, as in the olden times; “God bless thee,
forever and ever, Zana!”
The very touch of those hands, quivering with joy, was a benediction.
His tears fell upon my forehead, the holy tears of a Christian heart
broken up with tenderness. I could not speak, but with this new baptism
on my brow, entered upon my inheritance.
My inheritance! yes. We drove to Greenhurst, for such was Lady
Catherine’s wish, but I would not enter. While the servants were busy
receiving her, unconscious of a new mistress, I stole off and flew like
a bird to my old home. The moon was up, and I could see my way through
the wilderness and across the garden, but here I paused with checked
breath, for in the midst, still sheltered by trees and shadowed with
vines, stood the cottage, darkened and solitary, as if every living
thing had deserted it.
With a heavier tread, I went round the house to our old sitting room.
Here a gleam of light stole out upon the vines, and through the window I
saw Turner and his wife sitting drearily together. She was looking in
his face. His eyes were turned on the blank wall, as if he did not care
to receive even her sympathy.
I opened the door and stood within it attempting to speak, but with no
power. Maria started up.
“Zana! Zana!”
I flung myself on her bosom. She smothered me with her kisses, while
blessed old Turner stood pleading for one look at my face, that he might
be sure it was his child.
We sat up all night. Not once alone, but twenty times, I was forced to
repeat the romance I had been living. Over and over again they told me
how heartbroken they were when old Jupiter came back with his empty
saddle, and bridle trailing in the dust. For weeks old Turner had
searched for me. For months he had done nothing but mourn. Jupiter had
pined like the rest. My absence had flung everything into shadow.
But I was home again—home again—not for a time, but for all the days of
my life—the mistress of Greenhurst and the betrothed wife of Irving.
Turner kept repeating this over and over, as he walked up and down the
room. He could not realize it. In truth, I think he did not quite admit
all the facts to his belief, till he saw me cantering off on Jupiter’s
back the next morning. Dear old Ju, what a glorious ride we had over the
uplands that day!