The heiress of Greenhurst

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.