“Give her to me, sir,” said Morton, approaching the group, pale and agitated; “I am her husband, and with her pray your forgiveness.”
The young husband faltered; the good man looked up, with every feature of his face in commotion.
“Take her, then,” he said, placing his child in Morton’s arms; “I have only blessings to give—tears and blessings for you both.”
Morton carried his wife to the dear old couch of white dimity, which made my heart throb as I looked that way. A few moments restored her to consciousness.
“It is Zana who brings us back—bless Zana, father!” she said, faintly.
“Zana,” he exclaimed, bending over me with touching solemnity, and pressing both palms on my head, as in the olden times; “God bless thee, forever and ever, Zana!”
The very touch of those hands, quivering with joy, was a benediction. His tears fell upon my forehead, the holy tears of a Christian heart broken up with tenderness. I could not speak, but with this new baptism on my brow, entered upon my inheritance.
My inheritance! yes. We drove to Greenhurst, for such was Lady Catherine’s wish, but I would not enter. While the servants were busy receiving her, unconscious of a new mistress, I stole off and flew like a bird to my old home. The moon was up, and I could see my way through the wilderness and across the garden, but here I paused with checked breath, for in the midst, still sheltered by trees and shadowed with vines, stood the cottage, darkened and solitary, as if every living thing had deserted it.
With a heavier tread, I went round the house to our old sitting room. Here a gleam of light stole out upon the vines, and through the window I saw Turner and his wife sitting drearily together. She was looking in his face. His eyes were turned on the blank wall, as if he did not care to receive even her sympathy.
I opened the door and stood within it attempting to speak, but with no power. Maria started up.