The heiress of Greenhurst

Directly the chamber was filled. Weeping domestics crowded the ante-room. Lady Catherine and her son stood by the death couch; the mother lost in noisy grief; the young man white and tearless as the dead face upon which he gazed.

As Lady Catherine removed the embroidered handkerchief from her face, her eyes fell upon me where I stood by the window near the strange lawyer. Her face flushed, and she came toward us.

“How long has this girl been in Lord Clare’s chamber? How dare she insult our grief by intruding here?”

She spoke hurriedly, casting eager glances at the parchment which the lawyer still held.

“She came with me—she saw him when he died,” answered the old man.

“And were you here also?” questioned Lady Catherine, sharply, of the lawyer.

He bowed.

The lady forgot her tears and the grief, which, at first, had disturbed the sacred quiet of that death-chamber.

“Did he send for you?” she continued.

“He did, my lady.”

“And for her?” she cried, with a disdainful wave of the hand toward me.

“His last wish was to see her.”

This evasive, but lawyer-like reply, irritated her afresh.

“What is that in your hand?” she cried; and taking even this wary man by surprise, she reached forth her hand, secured the parchment, and eagerly unrolled it. She began to read; her thin lips grew almost imperceptible; and her light blue eyes, the most cruel color on earth, when filled with malice, became repulsive as those of a venomous reptile. They darted from line to line, growing fiercer and more hideous each instant, till her face became perfectly colorless.

At last her eyes dropped to the bottom of the document, a glare of delight shot from them, and striking the parchment with her open hands, she looked round upon us, with a smile of triumphant malice, horrible in that place and presence.

“It is not signed—it was not his work, but yours!” she cried, forgetting all respect for the dead in her fiendish exultation. “Go forth, one and all, your presence here is an insult!”

She waved her hand haughtily. But the lawyer and his clerk alone answered it. She still pointed her finger toward the door. Turner withstood the gesture firmly, but still with that respect which men of his class habitually render to those of superior station.

“Madam,” he said, “you have seen it written by his own order that this young girl was Lord Clare’s Child. Surely it cannot be that you wish her sent altogether from his dwelling while he is lying there?”

“I deny it; there is no proof that she is his child,” she retorted, pale with anger, and casting a furtive look at the bed, as if she feared those marble lips might move and contradict her. “What proof is there in an unsigned paper drawn up at a distance, and without his knowledge?”

“Before God and before the dead!” answered Turner, looking upward, and then bowing his forehead solemnly toward the death couch, “Clarence, Lord Clare, told me with his own lips, not twelve hours ago, that this child, Zana, was his daughter, proven so entirely to his satisfaction. By his orders, and at his dictation, I took down all that is in that unsigned will, and myself carried it to the lawyer, who hastened to put it in form.”

“It is false; had this been true Lord Clare would have signed it.”

“He was dead when we came back,” answered Turner.

I saw her lips move, those thin, pale lips made a movement, as if they would have said, “Thank God!” But in the awful presence of death she dared not force them to utter the blasphemy in words.

All this time George Irving had been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock of his uncle’s death, that he seemed entirely unconscious of what was passing. But at last the sharp tones of his mother’s voice aroused him, and he came forward with one hand slightly uplifted. “Hush!” he said, “this is no place for words.”

His mother looked at him with a half sneer.

“Do you know that this creature and her miserable old father have been plotting to disgrace our name, to steal away your birthright, George?”

“I only know that we are in the presence of death,” answered the young man, solemnly. “Madam, let me lead you away, this agitation will make you ill.”

“No—not while these vipers remain,” she answered.

This scene had, from the first, wounded me as if every word had been a blow; but my heart received as a blessing every fresh pang, for it seemed as if by pain I could make atonement for all I had inflicted on the dead. But I could now no longer endure it. Without a word, and with one mournful glance at the beautiful marble that had been my father, I went forth alone. Turner resisted; not all the malice of that bad woman could move him from the side of that death couch—command and insult were alike futile. Until the day of the funeral the old man remained by his master, still as a shadow, faithful as truth.

It was a miserable time with me after this. I wandered around that dwelling like a haunting and haunted spirit. They had laid my father out in state, and the meanest villager could pass in and look upon him; but I, his only child, driven away like a dog, could only look upon the walls that held him afar off, and through blinding tears. Still I said to myself it is right. Let me have patience with this cruelty—I who would not be merciful, who refused forgiveness, as if I were a god to judge and avenge, should learn to suffer. With the memory of his death green in my heart, I thought that the bitterness of my nature was all gone, and gloried like a martyr in the persecutions that threatened me.

At last I grew weary with watching. Maria strove to comfort me, but her own kind heart was full of grief, and we could only weep together and wish for old Turner.

But we had friends who did not quite forsake us, though it was known that even sympathy in our sorrow would be held as a cause of offence with Lady Catherine, who was now a peeress in her own right, and lady of Greenhurst.

The curate and my precious Cora came to us at once. They had seen Turner at his post, and knowing the danger, came without concealment to comfort us. Cora did not seem well. Her sweet mouth was unsteady, as if with more than sudden grief. Those pale blue shadows lay beneath her beautiful eyes, that I could never see without a feeling that an overflow of tears had left them there.

She was very gentle, and affectionate as a child, striving with her pretty ways and sweet words to win me from the sternness of my grief. I felt this gratefully, but had no power to express the sense that I really felt of her kindness. As one answers and feels the pity of a child, I received the sympathy that she came to give. Would that it had been otherwise, would that I had treated her as a woman full of rich, shy, womanly feelings; in that time of confidence and tears she might have been won to trust in me entirely. But there was the old feeling of suspicion in my heart. We shared our tears together, but nothing else. The sweet, motherless girl had no encouragement to open her heart, even if it had been her wish. In the selfishness of my grief I forgot everything else.

With Mr. Clark it was otherwise. His counsels, his gentleness and patience were so true, so beautifully sincere, that I could not but yield to them. I told him all—my night at Marston Court, the papers which Chaleco had unearthed, and my last, cruel interview with Lord Clare. But the good man could give me no counsel here. His life had been too isolate, too tranquil for power to cope with, or even understand these wild events. He was shocked by the revengeful character of Chaleco, and urged me with tears never to see this man again.

“Come to us,” said the good man—“come and learn to love God peacefully with Cora and your old friend. The little parsonage is large enough; it held three once, you know,” he added, with tender mournfulness; “and I sometimes think Cora still pines for her mother, as I do. Our home is very sad of late years, and you seldom come now, Zana.”

“I will come to you more than ever if they will let me,” I answered, touched by his sadness, and filled with remorse, for having, in a great degree, forsaken his dwelling the moment a jealous doubt of Cora entered my mind.

“Drive all this wild man’s advice from your mind,” continued he; “see how it embittered the last moments of your father’s life—those precious moments which God had bestowed that they might be filled with paternal blessings. Flee from this evil man, Zana.”

There was something in the simplicity and gentleness with which this advice was given that touched my heart; while a haughty faith in my own more daring character made me receive it with forbearance rather than respect. But just then all opposition was passive in my bosom. I was silent, and he thought me convinced.

In some things this strangely good man was full of resolution, strong in courage. When I expressed a wish to see my father again, before the tomb was closed on him forever, he offered at once to lead me to his side. I did not dream that this act of Christian courage would harm him, though he knew it well enough. It was a fatal step, but how could I comprehend that the hatred sure to follow me would be felt by all who regarded my forlorn state with kindness?

I saw my father once more in the dead of night, when no one watched beside him save old Turner. Mr. Clark went with me, and the two men, my sole supporters on earth, left me alone in the funeral chamber.

I will not attempt to describe the anguish, the sting of conscience which held me chained to that death couch. I knelt beneath the dim rays of light that gleamed like starbeams among the black draperies, and made an effort to pray. Was it my imagination, or did those fearful rubies burn in my ears? I could not pray.

As I rose from my knees with an oppression on my chest and brain, that held me as in fetters of iron, the masses of black velvet that fell from the tall ebony couch on which the lord of Greenhurst was laid, shook heavily, parted, and in the dusky opening I saw the head of Chaleco. The face was half in shadow, but those eyes and the gleaming teeth were full of sinister triumph.

He reached forth one hand, removed the linen from Lord Clare’s face, and whispered in his native Rommany.

“Look on your mother’s murderer, woman of the Caloes—look for the last time. He has covered your face with shame, driven you forth from his people. Come to us, it is time. The tribes of Granada know that the true blood has avenged itself here. They will recognize those symbols of Papita, their prophetess—they will forgive the base blood in your heart, and you shall be a queen to them. Chaleco promises.”

With an effort that seemed like a wrench on every nerve in my body, I turned away my eyes from the dark head of the gipsy count, and they rested on the holy stillness of my father’s death-sleep. The light gleamed over him; the sublime repose of his features had deepened till he almost smiled. Contrasted with that heavenly face, Chaleco seemed a demon tempting me.

I fell upon my knees once more. The weight left my brain and chest. Tears are sometimes sweeter and more holy than prayer. I wept freely.

When I arose, Chaleco stood beside me, but the power of his fierce eyes was gone. The unnatural influence that he had obtained over me was lost in the more sublime impressions left by that tranquil face.

“Go,” I said, gently; “I am not prepared to follow yet.”

“Wait till these gentiles spurn you away then!” he answered, in a fierce whisper; “they will do it. No fear, I can wait.”

“God only knows what they will do,” I said; “but I was not made for an avenger. Children do not turn and rend those who gave them life. Look there, how he smiles, and yet I killed him. You call this vengeance—it is murder!”

“Fool!” he exclaimed, “fool! but wait, wait!”

He waved his hand toward me as if to forbid any movement; and going to an antique cabinet which I remembered well, began to search in its drawers. I saw him take out two or three articles which he thrust in his bosom, then with a dark look toward the bed he disappeared. I know not how, for when I would have stopped his progress the velvet drapery swayed between me and him, as if dashed down with a sweep of his arm. When I searched behind that, he was gone.

On the next day my father was buried. I did not attempt to join the procession, or force myself on the notice of those who had assembled to render the last honors to his memory. Strangers could walk close by his bier; I looked on like a wild animal through the thick trees that concealed me. It was a bitter thought, and something of old resentments kept me dumb as the funeral train swept by.

I think it was three or four days after Lord Clare’s funeral, when Turner received a message from the Hurst. He seemed troubled, but made an evident effort to appear unconcerned. I saw him go with misgivings, for late events had left me in a state of nervousness that detected evils in every shadow. My presentiments were right. Lady Clare, the new countess, before leaving for her London house, among some other old and favorite servants, coldly ordered the old man away, unless he would send me, her brother’s orphan, from beneath his roof. Other changes were about to be made. The Marston Court living, which had been vacant more than a year, and which controlled that of Greenhurst, was given to Mr. Upham, who had taken orders and would assume it at once. This man now held Cora’s father in his power.

Everywhere was I hedged in and surrounded by foes; an Ishmaelitish feeling took possession of me amid my grief. The only friends that clung to me on earth were driven forth like dogs, because they gave me shelter. I knew well that Turner would not hesitate; that he would beg by the wayside rather than forsake the poor foundling he had cherished so long.

But he was now an old man, united to a woman scarcely more capable of working her way through ordinary life than a child. Should I permit him to be thus unhoused and thrust into new phases of life that I might share his little means of comfort? He loved our beautiful old dwelling. To send him from among the trees of that park would end like uprooting the oldest oak there. Not for me—not for me should this be done!

But Cora and her father, they had offered me a share in that pretty home by the church. This thought, for an instant, gave me pleasure; but was not the good man also dependent on a friend of Lady Catherine’s? I had almost said menial—for the soul renders baser services, sometimes, than the bare hands can give. Was not he also indirectly at the mercy of this new countess?

All night long I thought over these bitter reflections, and, spite of myself, an indignant sense of oppression—cruel, undeserved oppression, filled my soul. The iron of my nature broke up through the soil that had covered it for a time. The sibyl’s ear-rings grew precious to me. If cast out from one race, they were burning links which drew me to the darker and fiercer people, to whom persecution was an inheritance.

I arose in the morning and went to Greenhurst. The countess would have had me driven from her steps had I desired admission; but, well aware of this, I entered alone, unannounced, and made my way to her dressing-room.

The contrasts in that woman’s character were most repulsive. While her aims were all deep and cruel as the grave, their exhibition was always toned down by conventionalisms. While planning the ruin of a fellow creature, she would sit quietly curling the hair of her lapdog, as if that only occupied her mind.

When I entered her presence, she rose hastily from the depths of an easy-chair, in which she had been buried, and arranged the folds of a violet silk dressing-gown, with what seemed fastidious regard to the effect her delicate attempt at mourning would have upon the young gipsy. I was surprised at this. It seemed impossible that a woman so relentless could occupy herself with trivial attempts at display like this. Now, it seems the most natural thing on earth. Inordinate vanity and a savage want of feeling have linked themselves together through all history. The bad man or woman is almost invariably a vain one.

I think the woman took a mean pleasure in making her dog bark at me, for her hand was playing about his ears, and a hateful smile warped her lips as his snarling yelp died into a howl.

I took no heed, but walked up to her chair and rested one hand upon it. She shrunk back.

“Madam,” I said, “you have made it a condition with Mr. Turner that he shall thrust me from his door. Because he rejects this you wish to drive him from the estate. He refuses no longer; I have come to inform you of this. To-morrow you will have rendered your brother’s child homeless.”

“I am glad,” said the woman, haughtily—“very glad that Turner has come to his senses. No one wishes, of course, to send him away; he is a good servant enough; but we cannot make that pretty cottage a nest for impostors. So long as he lives there quietly and alone with his old wife, it does not signify, though I had a fancy for tearing the place down. But he must not harbor objectionable people; give him to understand this before you go. Above all things, strolling gipsies and their children must be kept from the estate. He will understand!”

“Madam, have I your promise that Mr. Turner shall remain in his old place so long as I keep from his house?” I questioned.

“Why, yes,” she answered, smoothing the dog’s ear over her finger; “he is a good old man enough. No one will disturb him, unless my son’s bride should take a distaste to his ugliness when she comes down.”

I received the sidelong glance of her eyes as she said this without flinching, and she went on.

“Estelle has fastidious fancies in such things. Now, I think of it, she may be in want of a clever maid. Did she not approve of your talent in that way, once? If the situation would keep you from want, I have no earthly objection.”

“Madam!” said I, standing upright and speaking, as it were a prophecy, for the words were not formed by a moment’s thought—“madam, when I come back to Greenhurst, I shall be its mistress, not a servant.”

She turned white with rage, and clenched her fingers fiercely among the thick curls of her spaniel, which lay crouched in her lap, eyeing me like a rattlesnake.

As I spoke, a low laugh reached my ear from a window; and, for an instant, I saw the face of Chaleco looking in through the curtains. Lady Clare cowered back in her seat, frightened by the glance that I fixed upon her, by my words and the fiendish glee of that laugh.

“Go,” she said, at last, “leave the estate, you and your old supporter; root and branch you shall all be exterminated.”

A noise at the window, a flutter of silk, and Chaleco stood by me.

“No, madam,” he said, “she shall go because it is the will of her people; but as for that old man, touch but the dog he loves at your peril!”

“What are you?” faltered the lady, gathering up her spaniel in an agony of terror. “How came you in this place?”

“I have been here before,” said Chaleco.

“When?”

“On the night Lord Clare’s wife died.” He stooped down whispering the words in her ear. “If a hair of that old man’s head suffers for his kindness to this child, I will come again.”

“I promise,” she faltered.

“Bah, I want no promise; your white face is truer than a false tongue. You dare not touch him—we of the Caloes have soft steps and potent drinks. We know how to wait, but in the end those who tread on us are stung.”

“You need not tell me that,” she answered bitterly, struggling with her terror.

“Be cautious then; you who owe this vast property to us should be considerate!”

“To you?—to you?”

“Yes, to us. Had not Lady Clare drank too freely of harmless cold water—had not Lord Clare known it, and so tortured himself to death, where would your chances of property have been?”

“And you did this?” cried the woman, aghast.

“Who else? The gentiles have no relish for vengeance, they swallow it at a mouthful—we take a life-time for one meal—don’t make us hungry again!”

Chaleco turned away with a scornful smile, and, stooping to my ear, whispered,

“At Marston Court to-night, I shall wait!”

He glided toward the window, lifted the curtain, and was gone before Lady Clare knew that he had moved; for, overcome with cowardly terror, she had buried her face in the cushions of her easy-chair.

I did not wait for her to look up, but left the room, satisfied that my poor old benefactor was saved from all attempts at persecution.

I went to the parsonage after this, where I might be another day—what course of life would be mine was uncertain, all that I knew was that my life at Greenhurst had ended.

Thus tortured in its affections, my poor heart turned with longing tenderness toward Cora, the only child companion I had ever known. I would see her, and with my secret kept close, have the joy of one mere loving interview. My heart grew gentle with tenderness as I approached the house. She was not at the window. An air of strange gloom pervaded the place. I entered the parlor; it had not been swept that day; books, drawings, and Cora’s guitar lay huddled together on the table; all the blinds were closed but one, and that was kept in constant motion by the wind, now letting in gushes of light, again filling the room with shadows.

In a dim corner stood Mr. Clark’s easy-chair with the back toward me. I approached it and leaned over. There sat the curate exactly as he had the morning of his wife’s death, pale, tearless, the most touching picture of grief that I ever saw.

I looked around for the cause. Where was Cora, and her father in this state? I ran to her room; it was empty. Into the kitchen; the servant sat moping by a dresser. She did not know what had come over her master, or where Miss Cora was. He had not spoken a word or eaten a mouthful since she went out.

Sick at heart, I went back to the parlor, and, kneeling by the good man, took his hand in mine.

“Speak to me!” I said; “oh, speak—what has happened? Why are you thus?”

He looked on me as he had done that first day in his grief, laid his hand on my head, and burst into tears. He did not speak, but put one hand into his bosom, took out a letter and attempted to unfold it. But his poor hands shook so nervously that the paper only rattled in his grasp.

With painful forebodings I took it from his hand. I did not read it all, for a sickness of heart came over and blinded me; but enough was plain; Cora Clark, my little Cora had left her father’s house to be married—so she wrote—and her companion—who was he?

George Irving left Clare Hall on the very night that letter was written. She mentioned no names, but this was a part that all might read.

Mr. Clark looked wearily at me as I read the letter. His lips moved, and he said in a meek, broken-hearted voice,

“What can we do, Zana?”

“We will find her—love her—take her home again,” I said. “Cora shall not remain with this villain, even as his wife!”

“I fear,” said Mr. Clark, looking meekly in my face, “God has taken away my strength—I cannot follow them.”

He arose to his feet, but staggered feebly and fell back again, helpless as a child.

“I will find her. Get well and wait patiently, father, I will not rest till Cora is at home again.”

“God bless you my child!”

He kissed me on the forehead, and with this holy seal upon my brow, I went forth from among my father’s people an outcast, an Ishmael among women, but strong to act and to endure.