The heiress of Greenhurst

Two or three mornings after this, I was sent over to the parsonage to spend the day with Cora. Maria took more than usual care in dressing me. I went forth in a white muslin dress, fluttering with rose-colored ribbons, quite too fairy-like for my usual morning visits to this my second home. But Cora was also floating about in clouds of white muslin, with glimpses of azure here and there about her arms and bosom, as if arrayed for some festival. How flowerlike was the style of her loveliness! Those ringlets of glossy gold; the violet eyes full of softness, downcast, and yet so brilliant when she smiled; the rounded arms, the neck and shoulders, white and satiny as when I first saw them by the spring; the little foot and hand, slender and rosy: all these points of beauty are before me this instant, vividly as if painted on canvas. There is a reason why they should have sunk deep into my heart—a cruel reason which the hereafter will disclose.

Her father was in his clerical robes, walking up and down the little parlor gently, as he always moved, and with a soft smile on his lips, as if amusing himself with some odd fancy.

“Come in, my child,” he said, with a change of expression, brought on, I felt, by a more serious current of thought which my appearance suggested. “Come in—you will find Cora in her room.”

I paused, as was my habit, to kiss his hand in passing, but he detained me a moment, pressing his lips upon my forehead.

“God bless you,” he said, “and make you worthy of all that your friends are so willing to suffer in your behalf.”

I went away to Cora’s room. I have told you how very lovely she appeared in her pretty dress, but it is impossible to describe the graceful undulations of each movement, the bewitching softness of her smile! My own olive complexion and deep bloom seemed coarse and rude beside her.

“And so you have come to the wedding,” she said, wreathing her arm around my waist, and drawing me before the little mirror at which she had been dressing. “Isn’t it a droll affair altogether?”

“They are very kind, very good to me,” I replied, a little hurt by her air of ridicule.

“And to me!” was her laughing reply; “this is the very first wedding I shall have seen. Isn’t it charming. The people will be here from Greenhurst; the young heir, perhaps.”

Why did that spasm shoot through my heart so suddenly? I was looking upon the reflection of Cora’s beauty. It was a lovely vision, but the color went from my own cheek as I gazed on hers, and that made the contrast between us strange and darker. I remembered that George Irving would look on that lovely vision also; and the first sharp pang of jealousy known to my life tore its way through my bosom. I did not know what it was, but sickened under it as the grass withers beneath an Upas tree.

I struggled against myself, conscious that the feeling was wrong, though ignorant of its nature, but other thoughts mingled with these selfish ones. I was astonished and hurt that strangers should force themselves upon a ceremony which the parties desired to be private. It seemed rude and cruel to the last degree.

But I was called into the parlor. Turner and Maria were in sight quietly crossing the fields together without the least pretention. Maria looked nice and matronly in her dress of soft grey silk and cap of snowy lace; Turner wore his ordinary suit of black, for he had long since flung off livery, and bore his usual business-like appearance. It was impossible to find anything to condemn in persons so free from affectation of any kind. For my part I was proud of my benefactors; there was a respectability about them that no ridicule could reach.

We entered a little church, and found it already occupied by a large party of strangers, guests from Greenhurst. I saw Turner start and change color as he went in, but pressing his thin lips together till they were almost lost among his wrinkles, he walked firmly on, holding Maria by the hand.

I saw it all, I knew that he was suffering tortures from those impertinent people, and all for my sake. It seemed as if my presence would be some support to them; and when Cora would have turned into a pew close to that occupied by Lady Catherine, I resisted and led her up to the altar.

There, on the very spot where Cora’s mother had rested in her death sleep, Turner and Maria were married. I thought of all this, and it made my heart swell with unshed tears; but Cora seemed to have forgotten it entirely. Her downcast eyes wandered sideways toward the intruders all the time. The two great mysteries of life, death and marriage, which we had witnessed, and were witnessing together by that altar stone, were driven from her mind.

The ceremony was over. Turner and his wife moved away, passing through the crowd with a serious dignity that would make itself respected. I would have followed close, but Cora held back, keeping on a range with the intruders. Lady Catherine was directly before us, leaning upon the arm of an old gentleman I had seen in the hunt.

“Ah, Lady Catherine, your benign goodness is felt everywhere,” he was saying. “It must have had an angel’s power in reforming this old stoic!”

“Hush,” said the lady, touching his arm with her gloved finger, “his daughter is just behind us!”

“What, the little Diana!” exclaimed the gentleman, looking over his shoulder. “I would give fifty pounds to see her again.”

“She will hear you!” whispered the lady, impatiently.

“And who is the other little elf?” cried the old squire, whose admiration was not to be subdued. “Why, dear lady, you have a new race of fairies and goddesses springing up about Greenhurst. Take heed that my friend George is not made captive.”

“I followed the old squire’s look, and saw George Irving, with another young man, fairer and taller than himself, with their eyes riveted on Cora.”

I remained with Cora all night. She was full of gleeful gossip about the wedding, and more than once spoke of the young gentleman who had looked at her so often. She did not say so admiringly, but I knew well the glow of vanity that led her thoughts that way, and the subject caused me unaccountable pain. I listened to her, therefore, with impatience, and while her beauty seemed more fascinating than ever, its brilliancy wounded me. It was a precocious and wrong feeling, I confess, but there were many passionate sensations in my heart even then, which some women live from youth to age and never know.

I was reluctant to go home—to meet Turner and Maria after the sacrifice and insult of the previous day. It seemed as if they must hate me for being the cause of it all. But deep in the morning, I put on my bonnet and prepared to return home. Cora proposed to go part way with me, and though I preferred to be alone, she persisted with laughing obstinacy, and flinging a scarf over her head, ran after me down the garden.

I was very willing to loiter on the way, and we turned into the fields enjoying the soft autumn air, and searching for hazelnuts along the stone fences.

We came to a thicket where the fruit was abundant, and so ripe that we had but to shake the golden husks, and the nuts came rattling in showers around us. I clambered up the wall, and seizing a heavy branch from the thicket, showered the nuts into the pretty silk apron which Cora held up with both white hands.

I think in my whole life I never saw anything so lovely as she was at that moment. The blue scarf floated back upon the wind, circling her head as you see the drapery around one of Guido’s angels; her eyes sparkled with merriment: and she shook back the curls from her face with a laugh, gleeful and mellow, as if she had fed on ripe peaches all her days.

“Stop, stop, you will smother me!” she shouted, gathering the apron in a heap, and holding up both hands to protect her curls from the shower of nuts that I was impetuously beating over her.

I paused, instantly, ashamed of the action, which had been unconscious as it was violent.

“Did the nuts hurt you?” I said, bending forward to address her.

“No, no; just a little when they struck my forehead: nothing more!” she said, still laughing, but with the rosy palm of her hand pressed to one temple that was slightly flushed.

That instant I heard the report of a fowling-piece close by, and a thrush fell, with a death shriek, down to the hazel thicket. It beat its wings about among the green leaves an instant, then fell heavily through, lodging at Cora’s feet. Her laugh died away in a sob; the poor thing grew pale as death, and I saw with a shudder that two great drops of blood had fallen upon her neck.

She dropped the nuts from her apron, and sank down to the earth. I sprang upright on the wall and looked around, excited and angry, for the shot had rattled against the very stones upon which I was seated.

“Great heavens! what is this? Are you hurt?” cried a voice, and I saw George Irving, with his young companion of the previous day, running toward us; while a fine pointer cleared the wall in search of the dead bird.

“I do not know; there is blood on Cora’s neck, it may be only from the bird,” I answered, leaping to the ground. “Cora, Cora, look up—are you hurt?”

I trembled from head to foot, and strove to lift her from the ground, for she made no answer. Some one cleared the wall with the leap of a deer and pushed me aside. I saw Cora lifted in the arms of a young man, and heard her begin to sob with hysterical violence.

“She is not hurt; it is not her blood!” he said, in a voice so calm, that though full of music, it grated on my ear, and with his cambric handkerchief he wiped the blood spots from her neck. “She is frightened a little, nothing more.”

“Nothing more!” exclaimed Irving, passionately, “why, is not that enough, brigands that we are, to terrify the sweet child into this state!”

I felt myself growing cold from head to foot, for Irving had taken the weeping girl from her supporter, and held her gently in his own arms. She opened her eyes—those beautiful violet eyes—and a smile broke through the tears that filled them.

I grew faint, a mist crept around me, and I leaned against the wall for support. No one seemed to observe it, for I made no noise, and they were busy with her.

“I am glad, that it is no worse; the leaves were so thick, and I looked only at the bird: Can you stand now? The blood is all away, nothing but a rosy glow on your neck is left to reproach us.”

It was Irving’s voice, and I could see dimly as through a mist that Cora still clung to him, and that he was looking into her eyes. Then I heard another voice, calm and caustic as if feelings like my own lay at the bottom, suppressed but observant.

“In all this you overlook the real evil,” it said, “don’t you see, Irving, that while this child does not require so much care, the other is really suffering—nay, wounded?”

I felt a sharp pain in my arm, just above the elbow, as he spoke, forgotten till then in the more bitter pang at my heart; and through the mistiness that still crept over my eyes, I saw a slender stream of crimson trickling down and dropping from my fingers.

“She is hurt indeed—a shot has gone through her arm,” exclaimed Irving, and I felt through every nerve that he had put Cora away from his support almost forcibly, and was close by me. Young as I was, the master feeling of my nature awoke then, and I started from the wall, dizzy and confused, but determined that he should not touch me.

“It is nothing,” I said, winding my handkerchief around the arm, and turning haughtily away. “Come, Cora, shall we go?”

“Let me rest, Zana, I am so tired and frightened!” she said, and her beautiful eyes filled again.

Irving’s face flushed crimson as I repulsed his offered support, and though the look with which he regarded me was regretful, it was proud too. When Cora spoke in her sweet pleading way, he bent his eyes upon her with an expression of relief, but turned to me again.

“It is an accident; you cannot suppose I wounded you on purpose,” he said, pleadingly. “Why are you so unforgiving?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” was my cold answer.

“You are wounded! Is that nothing?”

“It is nothing; and if it were, the wound was not intended for me.”

He looked at me earnestly, as if pained and embarrassed by the manner with which I received his apologies; then he turned toward Cora.

“I hope my friend is not mistaken—that I have not injured you also.”

“No,” replied Cora, casting her eyes to the ground and blushing. “I was terrified; the feeling of blood: fear for Zana made me tremble, but I am not hurt.”

“Thank heaven!” exclaimed young Irving, and gathering up her azure scarf, he dropped it lightly over the shining gold of her hair. I watched him with burning indignation. His gentle interest in Cora, who was all unharmed, seemed a mockery to the stinging pain of my arm. I forgot how coldly I had received his sympathy, and like all impulsive but proud natures, fancied that he must read my feelings, not my actions, and judged him by the fancy.

“I must go home now, the morning is almost gone!” I said to Cora. “Are you well enough to move on?”

“No, I tremble yet,” she said sweetly; “your wound pains me more than it does yourself, Zana, it has taken away all my strength.”

“Then I will go alone,” was my curt rejoinder. “My arm bleeds.”

I started suddenly, and almost ran toward home.

Directly I heard a light step following me.

“This is unkind, cruel!” said Irving, pleading; “let me help you?”

The pride of my heart was subdued; I relaxed the speed with which I had moved, and listened with a thrill of grateful pleasure.

“You smile—your color comes back, thanks!” he said, gaily.

I could not answer. The sweet sensations that overwhelmed me were too exquisite for words.

“You will not speak to me,” said Irving, stooping forward to look in my face.

My eyes met his, I felt the lids drooping over them, and, spite of myself, began to tremble with delicious joy. Like a cup full of honey, my heart overflowed with sighs, but I could neither speak nor look him in the face. Did he understand it all? Did he read in my face all that was making a heaven in my heart? All I know is, that he grew silent like myself, and we moved on together through the soft atmosphere like two young creatures in a dream. At length some obstacle arose in our path. I know not how it was, but we paused and looked at each other. My eyes did not droop then, but were fascinated by the deep, earnest tenderness that filled his. I met that gaze, and kept it forever in my soul, the most solemn and beautiful memory ever known to it.

“Zana, do you love me?”

The question fell upon my ear like a whisper of expected music. I had listened for it with hushed breath, for with the soft atmosphere of love all around me, it came naturally as lightning in a summer cloud. I think he repeated the question twice before the joy at my heart sprang with a deep, delicious breath to my lips.

“Zana, do you love me?”

“Do I love you? Yes, oh, yes!”

As the words left my soul, a calm, solemn contentment brooded down like a dove upon it. The feeling was too holy and sweet for blushes. It seemed to me as if I had partaken of an angel’s nature while uttering it. Up to that moment I had never dwelt upon the thought of love, save as a pleasant household feeling. The passion of love I did not even then comprehend, notwithstanding it beat in every pulse of my warm southern blood.

He took my hand, holding it with a firm, gentle pressure, and thus we walked on softly and still as the summer air moves among the daisies. I can imagine Adam and Eve walking thus in Paradise, when the temptation first crept across their path. I can imagine them starting at the evil thing, as we did when Irving’s tutor came suddenly upon us. He was a sweet-voiced, quiet man some ten years older than Irving, and a great favorite with Lady Catherine. I did not like his manners, they were fawning and yet cold—his very humility was oppressive.

“You walk slowly,” he said, in his calm, silky way; “no wonder, it is a delightful morning.”

Irving tightened his grasp on my hand.

“You can find the way home now,” he said, dropping it and turning away with his tutor.

“Nay, this is ungallant, Irving,” said that person, moving toward me; “you forget her arm seems hurt.”

“Yes, I had forgotten it,” was the reply, and he came back.

“Can you forgive me!”

I, too, had forgotten it.

“There is no pain left,” was my answer. “Go away with him, he troubles me.”

“And me!” was the murmured reply.

They went away together, leaving me alone with my great happiness.

It is said that love gives beauty to all material things. It may be so with others, but to me nature looked faded and insignificant that day. I longed for a rainbow in the skies; for a carpet of blossoms under my feet; for the breath of roses in every gush of air. Nothing but heaven could have matched the beautiful joy of my soul.

For three days my rich contentment lasted. During that time I scarcely seemed to have a mortal feeling. When fancy could sustain itself no longer, came the material want of his presence. My heart had fed upon its one memory over and over again. Now it grew hungry for fresh certainties. I began to think of the future, to speculate and doubt. Why had he kept away? Where was he now? Had I been dreaming—only dreaming?

I did not observe Turner and Maria in their new relations. At another time their awkward tenderness and shy love-making would have amused me, but now I scarcely remarked it, and in their embarrassment they forgot to notice me.

Perhaps they would have detected nothing remarkable had they been ever so vigilant, for I was self-centred in my own happiness, and joy like mine was too deep and dreamy for easy detection.