The heiress of Greenhurst

by Ann S. Stephens

There was another language, too, of which I had learned the sounds, but whether it was of human origin, or something that I had gathered from the wild birds, I could not tell. It had a meaning to me, but no one else understood it, and so, like the feelings to which this strange gift alone gave utterance, it was locked up in my heart to be hoarded and pondered over in secret.

CHAPTER XXV.
MYSELF AND MY SHADOW.

I do not know how Turner managed to establish me in this luxurious home, but Lord Clare had left him with power to act, and I suppose he exercised it in my behalf, without consulting Lady Catherine. In fact, the cottage had for years been considered as his residence.

I grew stronger and more contented as time went on. The stillness, the bright atmosphere, and the love with which I was surrounded, hushed my soul back into childhood again, for up to this time I can remember but few thoughts or sensations that partook of my infant years.

In truth, there was something fairy-like in my position, well calculated to excite an imagination vivid as mine to most unhealthy action. Sometimes it seemed to me as if I had been a child of the air, for my first memory went back to the lark’s nest in the meadow; and my earliest idea of enjoyment was rich with bird music. Good as Turner and Maria were, it never entered my mind to consider myself as absolutely belonging to them, more subtle and refined affinities existed within me.

Everything that surrounded me was calculated to excite these feelings. The utmost prodigality of wealth could have supplied nothing of the beautiful or refined which was not mysteriously bestowed on me. The clothes I wore, my toys and books were of the most exquisite richness. The texture of everything I touched was of peculiar delicacy; thus a natural worship of the beautiful, inherent in my nature, was fed and pampered as if by magic. The house contained a library of richly bound books, in many languages, mostly classical, or on subjects of foreign interest. Few romances were among the collection, but the poets of all countries were well represented. The best poetry of Italy, Germany and Spain, the ancient classics, and mythological subjects predominated. Many of these volumes were in the original language, but there was no lack of English translations. The most remarkable thing about this collection was an entire deficiency in the works of native authors. A few of the poets were to be found, Milton and two or three others, but everything calculated to give an insight into the social life or history of England, seemed to have been excluded with vigilance.

The small hexagonal room which contained these books was connected with my sleeping-chamber by a small gallery lined with pictures. Two or three statuettes, copies from the great masters, occupied pedestals in this gallery, and the lights were so arranged that every inspiration of the genius that had given life to the canvas or the marble, was thrown forward as by a kindred mind. This room and its gallery, unlike most of the other apartments, were left unlocked, and, with my imagination on fire with the legends in which Maria was constantly indulging, I loved to wander along the gallery, and ponder over the pictures, filling each landscape with some scene of active life, and reading a destiny in the strange faces that looked down upon me from the wall.

But more especially did the statuettes become objects of admiration, probably because they touched some latent talent of my own, and awoke a desire of emulation. Even at this early period of my life, I felt an appreciation of the beauty in form and proportion so exquisitely maintained in these objects, keen as the desire of a hungry person for food. An awkward position, an ill arranged article of furniture, cross lights upon a picture, anything which outraged that exquisite sense of the perfect, which has been both my happiness and my bane, was as vivid with me before I knew a rule of art as it is now.

So with this inherent sense of the beautiful guiding me like a sunbeam, I made play-fellows of the breathing marble and of pictures so rare, as I have since learned, that a monarch might have coveted them. I grew ambitious to emulate the marble in my own person, and amused myself, hour after hour, in practising the graceful position which each maintained on its pedestal. This grew tiresome at length, and impelled by the genius within me, I began to invent and arrange new combinations for myself, before the large mirror that reflected back the gallery and all it contained, when my chamber door was open.

Was I struck by the vision of childish beauty that broke upon me from the mirror during these efforts? Yes! as I was pleased with the paintings upon the wall, or the statues that gleamed in their chaste beauty around me. I loved the wild, little creature that stood mocking my gestures in the mirror, because she was more brilliant than the paintings, and more life-like than the marble—because her arch eyes were so full of the life that glowed in my own bosom. Ah, yes, I loved the child. Why not? She alone seemed my equal. I did not reflect that she was the shadow of myself, or in truth identify her with my own existence at all. She seemed to me like a new picture going through another progression toward life. They were so changeless; but she was variable as a hummingbird. She smiled, moved, looked a thousand things from those great flashing eyes. Oh, if she could have spoken, I was sure in my heart that she might have uttered that strange, hidden language of mine.