The heiress of Greenhurst

by Ann S. Stephens

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.