THE INHERITANCE
“Look, look, Tahmeroo, yonder is your home! To the right, to the left,
on either side, from horizon to horizon the land is yours!”
It was Walter Butler’s voice, exultant and loud, addressing his wife as
they came in sight of Ashton.
Tahmeroo leaned out of the carriage, and looked around with a glow of
proud delight. How different this scene from the broad forests of her
native land—how calm and beautiful lay the hills and fields, rolling
westward from the eminence upon which they had paused! A thousand
blossoming hedges chained them together, as it were, with massive and
interminable garlands. She saw clumps of trees, vividly green cascades
and brooks meandering towards the one bright stream which cut the lands
in twain. Upon the opposite hillside stood a mansion, vast, stately and
old, towering upwards from a park of fine oaks, and chestnuts heavy with
flowers. A prince might have looked proudly on a domain like that
without asking for more.
“And is this all mine—my own, to do with as I please?” said Tahmeroo,
turning her brilliant eyes from the landscape to Butler’s face. “That
pretty village, the old church, and all?”
“Yes, my red bird, you are mistress here—everything is yours.”
“Not so,” answered Tahmeroo, and her bright eyes filled. “What is
Tahmeroo without her husband? it is his, everything—Tahmeroo wants
nothing but his love.”
“But words cannot convey property, my bird; it takes yellow parchment
and wax, and the signing of names, to change an estate.”
“But there must be plenty of parchment in that grand old house, and,
thank the Great Spirit, Tahmeroo can write beautifully, like Catharine
her mother. She will not shame the white brave in his new home—he shall
yet be a great chief among these proud people.”
“And you will do this willingly, my wild-rose?” cried Butler, with a
glitter of the eyes, from which even the confiding wife had learned to
shrink. “It will be easily done; the entailed portion of the estates are
large enough for any woman; as for the rest——”
“Let the man drive quick, that we may find the parchment,” answered
Tahmeroo, eager to sacrifice her wealth.
Butler repeated her orders to the coachman, and the carriage, with its
outriders—for Butler took state upon himself immediately on reaching
England—dashed forward, and soon drew up before the lordly old mansion.
The door swung open—a crowd of servants stood ranged in the hall, and as
Tahmeroo entered the mansion a score of voices hailed her as the lady of
Ashton.
The next day Butler went back to London, in order to take legal steps
for the transfer of his wife’s property. For three weeks Tahmeroo
wandered restlessly through the apartments of her new home, which had
all the loneliness of the forest without its freedom. She was like a
wild bird, and fled with shy timidity from the attendants when they came
to take her orders. How often during those weeks did she sigh for her
own savage home at the head of Seneca Lake.
At last Butler returned, accompanied by a couple of the worst class of
London lawyers, and a company of reckless young men, who he persuaded
Tahmeroo were necessary witnesses to the transfer she was so anxious to
make. These men, who came down more out of curiosity to see the wild
forest girl who had turned out a countess than from any other motive,
were assembled in the library, a vast apartment, whose tarnished gilding
and faded draperies bespoke the long disuse that had fallen upon its
magnificence.
Tahmeroo, in her wildwood innocence, received her husband’s guests with
genuine Indian hospitality. She was eager to complete the deeds which
would make her lord a chief among them, and was bright with thankfulness
for this opportunity to prove her love.
The entail of the Granby estates covered only an unimportant portion of
the property, and when Tahmeroo was so eager to sign the deed which put
Butler in possession, she was divesting her rank of all its
appurtenances, and sweeping the property of a proud old family into the
hands of a profligate and ruffian.
Still it was a beautiful sight when that true-hearted woman came into
the room, arrayed with just enough of her former gorgeousness to give
effect to her modern garment. A band of her own raven hair wreathed her
head with a glossy coronet; her robe of crimson brocade, scattered over
with bouquets of flowers, flowed in warm, rich folds about her person.
She came in with all the stateliness of a queen, and the wild grace of a
savage, her cheeks glowing like a ripe peach, and her eyes bright with
affectionate triumph. She gloried in the sacrifice when the legal men
told her how important it was.
A few smiling dashes of the pen, and the great bulk of Tahmeroo’s wealth
was swept away, and with—more terrible for her—all the power she
possessed over the kindness of her husband.
That night—that very night—while the ink was scarcely dry upon those
parchments, he turned sullenly from her when she spoke of the happy life
they should lead in that beautiful home, and muttered something which
cut her to the heart about encumbrances being attached to everything he
touched.
When the deeds were signed which made Tahmeroo her husband’s slave
again, the young landholder and his guests sat down for a grand carouse,
over which that queenly young wife was to preside.
The very presence of these men in the house was an insult to its
mistress; but what did she know of that? With all her pride and natural
refinement she had yet to learn that civilization sometimes exhibits
phases at which the savage would blush. But ignorant as she was of all
this, with the intuition of a delicate nature, she felt the coarseness
of their manners and the absence of all that respect with which her
father’s tribe had ever surrounded her. Looking upon her as a beautiful
wild animal, the guests put no restraints upon themselves, but following
their host’s example called on her to fill their goblets, and made free
comments on the beauty of their cup-bearer, recklessly unconscious of
the proud nature they were attempting to degrade.
No squaw of burden in her tribe could have been treated with more coarse
contempt than Butler heaped upon that noble young creature before that
reckless group rose from the table. At last, wounded and outraged, she
scarcely knew how or why, the young Indian turned from them with a hot
cheek and eyes full of indignant tears and left the room, refusing to
come back when Butler, flushed with wine and insolent with triumph,
called after her.
The rioters about the board set up a drunken shout, and levelled coarse
jeers at their host.
“By Jove!” said one, “she moves off like a lioness in her jungle; you
will find her hard to tame, Butler.”
“What a haughty glance she cast back upon us,” said another, looking at
Butler over his wine-glass as he drained it; “you’ll find that handsome
animal difficult to break in.”
“Shall I?” answered Butler, hoarse with rage; “she has given me the
whip-hand to-night; come, see how I will use it.”
They all started up and reeled from the table, crowding into the hall.
Tahmeroo, urged by the force of habit, had flung open the outer door
with her own hands, and was going through into the night air. She could
not breathe within doors; her proud spirit was all in arms against her
husband’s guests; even yet she never dreamed of blaming him; it seemed
so natural to be his slave.
As she stepped on the stone terrace, followed by a stream of light from
the hall, the young men came out of the saloon, and, seeing her, were
about to advance; but, as they looked beyond, the outline of two
carriages dimly appeared in front of the mansion, and a group of five
persons were at that moment mounting the steps.
Tahmeroo sprang forward with a cry of delight, embraced some one
passionately, and fled to her husband’s side with the swiftness of a
deer.
“It is the white angel! the beautiful—beautiful——”
She broke off, all in a glow of delight, for that moment Varnham entered
the hall, leading Mary Derwent by the hand. They were followed by a
young man, with a female leaning on his arm, and behind them all came an
old lady, who looked half-terrified by the magnificence into which she
had been introduced.
Butler looked on this intrusion dumb with astonishment, for the whole
group was known to him. At last, rage brought back his speech; with a
flushed face and unequal step he advanced to meet the young couple, for
there his fury concentrated itself.
“Edward Clark, and you, Jane Derwent, I do not know what has brought you
here, or how you have crossed the Atlantic, but permit me to say that
this house is mine, and it receives no guests whom I do not invite.”
Before Clark could answer, Varnham stepped back and confronted the angry
man, with Mary on his arm.
“You mistake,” he said, gently; “this house belongs to Lady Granby’s
daughter; you cannot be its master.”
Butler broke into an insulting laugh, and beckoned Tahmeroo with his
finger.
“It did belong to Lady Granby’s daughter; but my squaw will tell you
that it is now deeded to me, and these gentlemen can prove that it was
done by her own free act.”
“Indeed,” said Varnham, casting a compassionate glance on Tahmeroo; “but
she will fail to give you any claim here. This young lady is Lady
Granby’s daughter, born in her first and only legal marriage; even your
wife has no right at Ashton, save as the half-sister of the young
countess.”
Here Mary reached out her hand towards Tahmeroo, with a look of tender
humility, as if she begged pardon for being the elder and the legal
child of their common mother.
Tahmeroo did not take the hand, but drew close to Butler; she could not
quite comprehend the scene.
Again Butler laughed, but hoarsely and with a troubled abruptness.
“And you expect me to believe this; you——”
“Not without proof; one of you,” said Varnham, turning to the servants
that now came crowding into the hall, “one of you call the housekeeper,
if she is yet alive.”
An old woman, whose hair was folded, white as snow, under her cap, came
into the hall, and, shading her eyes with one hand, fell to perusing his
features with a disturbed manner.
“Mrs. Mason!”
She knew the voice; the hand dropped from her eyes, and tears began to
course down her cheek.
“My master—my master!”
The oldest servants, who had held back till then, crowded forward,
smiling and crying in the same breath.
“The master—oh, the master has come back!”
Butler grew pale; the very earth seemed slipping from under his feet.
“Who are you, and what right has this crooked imp at Ashton?” he
demanded.
“I am the husband of Caroline Lady Granby; you see, these good people
all recognize me.”
“We do—we do—every one of us; his hair has grown white, and his forehead
is not so smooth, but there is the old smile, and the old look of the
eye; God bless the master.”
“And you will know this face, too,” said Varnham, removing Mary’s
bonnet, and allowing the golden hair to fall over her shoulders; “she is
my child—little Mary.”
The servants began to weep; some covered their faces; others came
forward on tiptoe and tenderly examined those beautiful features. The
old housekeeper sunk to her knees, and drew the face down to her bosom;
then she looked up wistfully at Varnham; he understood all she desired
to ask, and turned his eyes sorrowfully on his child’s mourning-dress.
A quiet awe stole over the group of servants; they asked no more
questions.
Gravely and quietly, like one who takes up a pleasant duty, the young
countess of Granby assumed the great power of her birthright. Her father
had spent half his life in striving to introduce the blessings of
civilization among the savages; but in remedying the evils which
civilization had yet left untouched in that rich domain, both he and the
gentle Mary found ample scope for all the benevolence of their great
hearts.
While Edward Clark managed the estates, and his young wife brought all
her sprightliness and beauty into the household of her sister—for so she
still called the Lady of Ashton—the lovely girl herself moved about her
own mansion, in her simple dress of black silk or velvet, more like a
spirit of mercy than the mistress of a proud name and broad lands. Her
tastes continued simple and child-like as ever, and when she appeared in
public it was to be greeted with such love as a beautiful spirit—let the
form which clothes it be what it will—is sure to command from the good.