Social Problems 13th Edition Eitzen Baca Zinn Smith Test Bank

Social Problems 13th Edition Eitzen Baca Zinn

Smith Test Bank

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978-0205881888
Chapter 1 The Sociological Approach to Social Problems
A. Multiple-Choice
1. As the percentage of the U.S. residents who are over 65 years old increases, the
divide between workers who support the old with payroll taxes will have a racial
dimension because the elderly will be overwhelmingly __________.
A) African American
B) Asian
C) Latin American
D) White
Answer: D
Page Reference: 3
Learning Objective:
Topic/A-head: Introduction
Skill Level: Remember the Facts
2. Emergency food requests and people seeking emergency shelter are
__________.
A) increasing
B) decreasing
C) staying the same
D) not currently studied
Answer: A
Page Reference: 4
Learning Objective:
Topic/A-head: Introduction
Skill Level: Remember the Facts
3. The United States, with about 4.5 percent of the world’s population, consumes
__________ of the world’s energy.
A) one-third
B) one-fourth
C) one-half
D) three-fourths
Answer: B
Page Reference: 4
Learning Objective:
Topic/A-head: Introduction
Skill Level: Remember the Facts
4. Based on the measures used in the text, which of the following is the most
accurate?
A) A greater proportion of the government is run by women in the United States
than in Scandinavian countries.
B) The United States was among the worst countries in the rate of deaths for
children under age five.
C) Japan is the best country in the world in which to be a mother.
D) Women have it better in the United States than in any other country in the
world.
Answer: B
Page Reference: 5
Learning Objective:
Topic/A-head: Introduction
Skill Level: Remember the Facts
5. Almost all the growth in the world’s population by 2050 will take place in the
__________.
A) poorest nations
B) wealthiest nations
C) United States
D) European Union
Answer: A
Page Reference: 5
Learning Objective:
Topic/A-head: Introduction
Skill Level: Remember the Facts
6. Half of the people in the world live on less than __________.
A) $0.25 a day
B) $0.50 a day
C) $1 a day
D) $2 a day
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the hounds before a whole crowd of people, for a little girl who has
only Mr. Turner to care for her. Oh, yes, I know—I could feel that
without knowing!”
“Strange child,” he said, with a grave smile. “Who taught you all
this, so young, and without the faith becoming this girlish beauty?”
The anger was burning out in my heart. There was something
manly and reproving in his calm seriousness that subdued me. He
reached out his hand, while the smile brightened all over his face.
“Come, let us be friends—you cannot keep angry with me, because
I have not deserved it!”
I gave him my hand. He stooped in his saddle as if to press his lips
upon it, but checked the impulse; and, holding it tight an instant, let
it drop, saying very earnestly,
“I would not have wounded you for the world.”
That instant the undergrowth close by us was sharply parted, and
Turner broke into the path on which we had paused.
I felt the blood leave my face, and, for the first time, trembled at
the sight of my benefactor. The old man looked sternly across me to
George Irving, whom he neither saluted nor addressed; but, taking
Jupiter by the bit, said in a deep, husky voice, that made the heart die
in my bosom,
“Zana, come away!”
I dropped the bridle, and covering my face with both gauntleted
hands, cowered down upon my saddle with a keen sense of the
humiliation which he was witnessing.
I listened breathlessly.
“Turner, if you will let the pony move on, I will dismount and lead
my hunter while we have a little talk.”
It was Irving’s voice, and I listened breathlessly for the reply. Some
seconds passed before it came; Turner’s throat seemed husky.
“To-morrow, Mr. George, I’ll be at the Hurst,” he said, “and then
as much talk as pleases you; but now I must take this child home.”
“But she seems terrified; you will not—surely you will not be harsh
with her?”
 “Harsh with her! with Zana—was I ever harsh to you in my life,
little one?” urged the old man, and the husky voice was broken up
with tenderness.
I uncovered my face, and holding out both hands to the old man,
turned toward young Irving.
“You know how wrong I have been—see how forgiving, how kind,
how good he is!”
The old man’s face began to work. The fine wrinkles quivered over
his cheek and around his mouth, a sure sign of emotion in him. He
lifted my two gloved hands and kissed them fondly. All at once he
dropped my hands and went up to Irving.
“Mr. Irving—my dear Master George, forget that you have seen her
—forget all about it—promise me that you will.”
“That would be difficult,” answered the youth, glancing at me with
a smile.
“It would indeed,” said the old man, looking fondly in my face.
“God help us—this is a bad business! At any rate, leave us now!”
The young man turned, bent his head, and wheeling his hunter,
disappeared.
 CHAPTER XXXII.
THE UNWELCOME VISITOR.

I spent a wakeful night, disturbed by a host of new feelings and

strange thoughts, that crowded upon me like a rush of waters. All
night long a review of the day’s hunt went forward in my fancy. The
brilliant dresses and those strange faces circled me with a sort of
fascination. Sometimes they smiled warningly, then they gibed at my
torn garments—and foremost of all was the proud face of Lady
Catherine. Oh, how I began to hate that woman! It was the bitter
antagonism of a life-time striking root deep in my heart.
Toward morning I thought of Turner, with a pang that was
punishment enough for the sin of my first disobedience. I knew that
he was not only grieved but plunged into difficulties on my account—
that all the evils he had been so anxious to guard against were
already brought on by my obstinate self-indulgence.
This reflection made me heart-sick, and I turned away from the
soft daylight as it broke through my room, ashamed to receive it on
my ungrateful face. With faltering steps I went down stairs and
seated myself in the little breakfast-room. Turner was in the garden,
but though I had not the cowardice to shrink from encountering him
in the house, I could not summon courage to seek him.
He saw me at the window looking sad enough, I dare say, and,
coming up, gave me a handful of tiny white roses, which were the
glory of a plant that he had never allowed to be touched before. I felt
the tears rushing to my eyes, and creeping toward the old man,
murmured in the deepest humility,
“Oh, Mr. Turner, why don’t you scold me? Why not punish my
wickedness?”
 “Because,” he answered, with a miserable shake of the head,
“because you will be punished enough, poor thing, before night, or I
am mistaken.”
“I hope so—I’m sure it would be a satisfaction to be soundly
reprimanded. You break my heart with all this kindness.”
“Here comes one,” said Turner, growing red in the face, “who will
not sin in that way, I can answer.”
I followed his look, and saw Lady Catherine Irving coming through
the garden, walking rather quickly, and brushing down the autumn
flowers with the sweep of her garments. On seeing us she resumed
the stateliness usual to her movements, and stooped now and then to
gather the snowy flowers of a chrysanthemum, which she seemed to
examine curiously while approaching the house.
“Ah, Turner,” she said, drawing toward the window, “what a pretty
little nest you have here; and what flowers! I have never seen any
thing to compare with these,” and forming a ring with the thumb and
fore finger of her left hand, she drew the white tufts softly through it,
as Nero might have trifled on the day of his mother’s murder. “Why,
you live here with your little family quite like fairies. No wonder you
are so often absent from Greenhurst.”
“I hope that none of the duties my lord left for me to perform are
neglected, madam,” answered Turner, with a degree of dignity that
charmed me.
“No, no—I do not complain—far from it, good Turner—that I am
here is a proof of it. Your child—I hope she was neither frightened
nor hurt by the hounds.”
“No, madam,” I answered, leaning through the sash. “It was rather
lonesome being left by myself with the poor stag; but the young
gentleman”——
“Hush!” said Turner, sternly, glancing toward Lady Catherine,
whose cheek flushed with sudden color.
I saw the color and the glitter in her eyes, more expressive still,
and even Turner’s caution could not control me. I was determined to
let her know that her son had returned to protect me. The
remembrance that he had seemed to fear her knowledge of it only
urged me on.
 “The young gentleman came back and put Jupiter and me into the
right path: but for that I don’t know what would have become of us.”
“Your daughter seems a bright, and—forgive me, good Turner—
rather forward little thing,” said the lady, lifting the flowers softly to
her lips, as she gave him a searching glance. “I am very glad though,
that she is unharmed.”
Turner looked at her, and then with a restless movement at me.
The color came up among his wrinkles, and his features began to
work as if some unfinished resolution had set them in motion. Before
he could speak, however, Lady Catherine’s voice broke in again,
“And your wife—my good Turner—really I must have a sight of her
and this pretty home of yours—quite a bijou in the grounds, truly!”
Placing a richly enamelled glass to her eyes, the lady took a quiet
survey of the building before Turner could find words to answer her.
Never had I seen the old man so agitated. The color came and went
beneath his wrinkles; his thin lips grew pale and purple by turns; his
state of irresolution was painful.
“I will step in and see your wife!” said Lady Catherine, dropping
her glass to the full length of its Venetian chain, and looking around
for the door.
Now Turner became calm; every muscle and nerve settled down.
He stood more firmly on the ground, and looking his tormentor
steadily in the face, answered,
“Some one must have been joking at my expense, my lady. I have
no wife!”
“No wife!” exclaimed Lady Catherine, with a start that even I could
see was premeditated. “No wife—and this child?”
“You are mistaken,” said Turner, “this is not my child. Yourself saw
me when I took her up from your own door-stone, or rather the door-
stone of Greenhurst, eight years ago.”
A cold smile curled Lady Catherine’s lip. She lifted her glass again
and eyed me through it. “I remember the circumstance,” she said,
and the hateful smile deepened—“I remember, too, that a child
disappeared very mysteriously but a short time before from this nest
—two children in fact—if my people told me aright.”
 “They did tell you aright, lady,” said Turner, sternly—but she
interrupted him.
“One, the elder, went out to service, I fancy. This one dropped,
miraculously, on my door-step. Well, well, my good Turner, no one
thinks of quarrelling with this fanciful way of adopting your own
children; but her mother—unless you are really married to this
woman, she must go. I cannot answer it to society—to Lord Clare, the
most particular man on earth—if she is allowed to remain on the
estate a day longer.”
“Madam,” said Turner, “I have said but the truth; Zana, there, is
no more my daughter than her Spanish bonne is my wife!”
“Who is her—her father?—who is her mother then?” asked Lady
Catherine.
I remarked that her voice faltered in putting this question, and she
could not look in Turner’s face.
Turner regarded her firmly, and a faint smile stirred his lip. Lady
Catherine saw it, and once more there arose a shade of color in her
cheek.
“Lady, I can answer these questions no more than yourself, for you
were present when I found the poor child.”
“And had you never seen her before?” questioned the lady.
Turner hesitated and seemed to reflect; but at last he answered
firmly enough.
“It is impossible for me to say yes or no.”
The lady played with her flowers awhile, and then spoke again very
softly, and with a degree of persuasion in her voice.
“Well, Turner, we will not press you too hard. I cannot forget that
you were my brother’s favorite and oldest servant, and now his agent
—that he trusted you.”
“He did indeed,” cried the old man, casting a glance full of
affection at me.
“I am sure you would do nothing that could cast reproach on him,”
continued the lady, placing a strong emphasis on the pronoun.
“Not for the universe,” ejaculated Turner.
 “Yet, while you live thus—while there is a doubt left regarding this
child, cannot you see that even my noble brother may be condemned
as—as sanctioning—you understand—this species of immorality—on
his estates?”
“But how am I to prevent this?” exclaimed Turner, after a moment
of perplexed thought, during which he gazed on Lady Catherine, as if
searching for some meaning in her words which they did not wholly
convey.
“Let me tell you—for I have been thinking on this subject a good
deal—she is a fine-spirited girl that, a little wild and gipsyish; but
many of our guests were struck with her.”
“No wonder!” exclaimed Turner, with his face all in a glow. “Who
could help it?”
“So they inquired a good deal about her, and when it came out that
she lived here under your protection, of course, it led to questions
and old things—nonsensical gossip about by-gone times that quite
made me nervous—you understand, good Turner. So I told them
what I am sure is the truth even yet—that the Spanish woman here is
her mother, that she is your own child—that you are married.”
Turner shook his head.
“Then it will be so,” persisted the lady, “or as I said before, both
woman and child must leave the estate.”
“You cannot be in earnest!” said Turner.
“Does it seem like earnest when you find me here at this hour of
the morning?” replied the lady.
“But it was Lord Clare’s desire—his command—that I hold
authority in this house until his return,” persisted Turner.
“He mentions nothing of this in his letters to us. Besides, you
cannot mean to say that he has made such provisions for these
females.”
“No, Zana was not here at the time; but I know, I am sure”——
“Be sure of nothing!” exclaimed Lady Catherine, with more energy
than she had yet exhibited—“be sure of nothing, if you love your
master, but that you can serve him best by silencing this subject of
public gossip at once. Marry the woman with whom you have been so
long domesticated!”
 “Marry!” exclaimed Turner, with a terrible twist of the face, as if
the word had not really come home to his heart till then, “marry at
this time of life, and a Spanish woman. Wouldn’t it do as well, my
lady, if they set me in the pillory for an hour or so!”
“It might not do so well for the girl, perhaps,” was the stern reply.
“For her sake I would do anything!”
“It is a great pity to keep the poor thing caged up here: and what is
to become of her in the end? As your daughter she can come up to
the house and see something of society.”
“What, a servant, madam?” cried Turner, reddening fiercely.
“Nothing of the kind; you are no common man, Turner; and
certainly that child, with her wild, arch, nay, haughty style, might
pass anywhere. She shall come to the Hurst and obtain some
accomplishments. I should fancy her greatly about the house. She
might pick up a little education from my son’s tutor, who will be
down in a week or two, and become quite an ornament to the
establishment.”
“She would be an ornament to any place,” said Turner, proudly.
“Yes,” replied the lady, smiling upon me, “any man might be proud
of her for a daughter. I dare say we shall be excellent friends soon—
meantime think of what I have said. This is a charming place, it
would be a pity for the child to leave it. To-morrow let me have your
answer.”
She moved proudly away, holding up her dress, and winding
carefully through the flower-beds, as if her errand had been the
commonest thing in the world.
 CHAPTER XXXIII.
TURNER’S STRUGGLE AGAINST MARRIAGE.

I could not realize the importance of Lady Catherine’s visit all at

once. It had been carried on so quietly, so like the ordinary common-
place of her patrician life, that its meaning seemed lost in sound. I
could even amuse myself with the excitement of poor Turner, who,
folding his arms behind him, went furiously pacing up and down the
garden, treading everything down in his path, and wading knee deep
through the tall autumn blossoms, jerking his feet among them now
and then, as if it were a relief to destroy anything that came in his
way.
I had never seen the old man in this mood before, and almost
thought him mad, for he muttered to himself, and seemed quite
unconscious that I was a witness to the scene.
At last he came by the window with a long pendant of honeysuckle
trailing from his boot.
“Mr. Turner,” I said, laughing softly as he came up.
“Oh, you can be amused—easily amused—children always are!” he
exclaimed savagely. “Now can you see what mischief that ride has
done? Sit and laugh, truly—but what am I to do?”
“Lady Catherine says you must get married,” I answered,
mischievously, for rage, instead of appalling, was invariably sure to
amuse me.
“Married!” almost shrieked the old man, “and so you have brought
me to that, you—you!”
The contortions of his face were too droll. I could not keep from
laughing again.
 “Zana,” said the old man, and tears absolutely stood in his eyes, “I
was good to you—I loved you—what right had you to bring this
misfortune on me? I knew that evil would come of it when I found
Jupiter’s stall empty; but marriage, oh, I did not dream of that
calamity.”
“And is marriage always a calamity?” I inquired, sobered by his
evident feeling.
“Yes!”
He hissed forth the monosyllable as if it had been a drop of poison
that burned his tongue.
“And you dislike it very much?”
“Dislike it!”
There is no describing the bitterness that he crowded into these
two words.
“Then do not—for my sake do not be married. Why should you?
I’m sure it will do me no good. I don’t care in the least for it!”
His sharp eyes brightened for an instant, and he looked at me
eagerly, like a convict on whom sudden hopes of escape had dawned.
“Then you wouldn’t much mind leaving this place, Zana?” he said.
My heart sunk, but I strove to answer cheerfully.
“No, no, I—I don’t think it would seem so hard after a little!”
“And Jupiter, and Cora?”
I burst into tears.
“There now, that is it—I’m answered—I was sure it would break
her little heart,” cried the old man, desperately—“I’ll do it. I’ll bind
myself, hand and foot—I’ll make an eternal old fool of myself. I’ll—
I’ll. It’s no use struggling, I’m sold, lost—tied up—married!”
He uttered the last word ferociously, casting it down as if it had
been a rock.
“Not for me, Turner—not for me,” I said, losing all sense of the
ludicrous in his genuine repugnance to the measure Lady Catherine
had proposed. “I do not understand this—what on earth is the reason
they cannot let us live in peace?”
“Because you must be cutting loose from my authority—cantering
about like a little Nimrod in long skirts—fighting hounds—getting
acquainted with young men whom you ought to hate—to hate, I say
Miss Zana! Because you are a little fool, and I am an old one.
Because, because—but it’s no use talking.”
I began to see my disobedience in its true light. Certainly it was
impossible to comprehend why it had led to the necessity which my
old benefactor so much deplored, but I felt to the bottom of my heart
that this evil, whatever it was, had been brought on by myself.
“Mr. Turner,” I said, “if I stay in-doors a month, nay, a whole year,
will it do any good?”
“No—not the least!”
“What can I do? Indeed, indeed, Turner, I am very sorry,” I
persisted; “but let us go away; it will be far better to leave Cora and
Jupiter, the house and everything.”
Why did I lose my voice so suddenly? Why did the thought that
George Irving was at Greenhurst depress my heart and speech? I felt
myself growing pale, and looking despairingly around the lovely
garden, for the first time realizing how dear every flower had
become.
Turner looked at me wistfully, and at length went away. I saw him
an hour after wandering to and fro in the wilderness. I did not leave
the window, though breakfast had been long waiting. The whole
conversation had bewildered me. Why should Turner dread this
marriage so much—was it not right? It seemed to me a very easy
thing when so much depended on it. I had never thought seriously of
marriage in my whole life, and its very mysteriousness made me look
upon Turner as the victim of some hidden evil. I was resolved that he
should not be sacrificed. What was my bonne, friends, Jupiter, to the
comfort of an old friend like him?
I went forth into the wilderness, and found him sitting at the root
of a huge chestnut, with his clasped hands drooping idly down
between his knees, and gazing steadfastly on the earth.
“Zana,” he said, reaching forth his hand, “sit down here, and tell
me all about it. What have I been saying? Have I been very cross,
darling?”
His kindness went to my heart. I sat down upon a curved root of
the tree, and leaned softly against him.
 “Yes, a little cross, but not half so much as I deserved,” I said,
meekly. “But tell me now, Mr. Turner, what is this marriage, what is
there so dreadful about it?”
“Nothing, child—nothing,” he answered, with forced cheerfulness.
“I dare say it is very pleasant—very pleasant indeed to some people. I
know of persons who are very fond of weddings, quite charmed with
them; but for my part a funeral seems more the thing—there is some
certainty about that. It settles a man, leaves him alone, provides for
him.”
“I never saw a wedding,” said I, thoughtfully, “and but one funeral.
That was very sad, Mr. Turner; if a wedding is like that, don’t be
married—it is dreadful! Are weddings like that funeral ever?”
“I have seen weddings a great deal more solemn,” he answered,
still gazing on the ground. “One that seemed but the mockery of a
funeral, and ended in one!”
“What one was that?” I questioned, while a cold chill crept
mysteriously through my veins.
“It was Lord Clare’s wedding that I was thinking of,” he answered,
looking up, “and that happened three days before I found you on his
door-step.”
I looked fearfully around. It seemed as if a funeral train were
creeping through the woods—the ghost of some procession that lived
in my memory, yet would not give itself forth.
“And do they wish your wedding to be like that?” I whispered,
creeping close to him.
“Like that!” said Turner, lifting up his eyes, “God forbid! Mine, if it
must be, is but the expiation of that!”
“And would Lord Clare desire it?—would he insist like Lady
Catherine?” I questioned. “Would he turn me out of doors unless you
married Maria, do you think?”
“He turn you out of doors—he, child? I only wish we had some way
of reaching him!”
“Where is he now?”
“In Africa, the last we heard, searching for what he will never find.”
“And what is that, Mr. Turner?”
 “Peace, child, peace—a thing that he will never know again on this
side the grave!”
“Is he a bad man then?” I persisted, strangely enthralled by the
subject.
“Millions of worse men will live and revel after he has pined
himself into the grave.”
“Let us leave this place and seek for him,” I said, filled with a
sympathy so deep that my very heart trembled. “If he is unhappy,
you and I may do him some good.”
“Oh, child, if you could but remember. If I had but some little
proof,” he answered, gazing at me impressively.
“Proof of what, Turner?—what can you wish to prove?”
“That in which nothing but God can help me!” was the desponding
reply.
“It seemed to me,” said I, pressing each hand upon my temples, for
they were hot with unavailing thought—“it seemed to me as if the
thing that you wish to know was beating in my brain all the time.
Something there is, blank and dark in my memory—how shall I bring
it forth that you may read it?”
“Wait God’s own time, my child,” answered the old man, gently
taking the hands from my temples, “sooner or later that which we
wish to learn will be made clear. Come now, let us go home!”
“But they will not let us stay there, and I am ready to go,” I
remonstrated.
“Yes, they will let us stay now,” he answered, with a grim smile.
“Why?”
“Because I shall marry the Spanish woman to-morrow.”
There was a lingering bitterness in the emphasis placed on the
words Spanish woman, that lengthened the phrase for a moment. It
was the last I ever witnessed. Turner did not sacrifice himself by
halves.
“Zana,” said the noble old man, as we moved slowly toward the
house, “you must not tell Maria of Lady Catherine’s visit, or of—of
my shameful passion after it. Women have strange ideas about love,
and so on, and she might take it into her head to ask awkward
questions if she knew all. Do you understand?”
 Yes, I understood perfectly. He was anxious to save the poor
Spanish woman from a knowledge of his repugnance to the marriage.
I promised the secrecy that he desired.
We entered the breakfast-room together. Maria had been waiting
for us more than an hour, but she ran cheerfully for the coffee urn
and muffins without a word of comment.
I saw Turner look at her with some appearance of interest once or
twice during the meal. The queer old philosopher was evidently
reconciling himself to the fate that an hour ago had half driven him
mad. Maria certainly looked younger and more interesting than
usual that morning. Unlike the Spanish women in general, she wore
her years becomingly, the moist climate of England, and the quiet of
her life conspiring to keep from her the haggard look of old age that
marks even mid-life in her native land. The picturesque costume
which she had never been induced to change, was also peculiarly
becoming; the dark blue skirt and bodice of black cloth; the long
braids of her hair, slightly tinged with snow, but gay with knots of
scarlet ribbon; the healthy stoutness of her person united in
rendering my faithful bonne anything but a repulsive person. I began
to have less compassion for Turner, and with the mobility of youth
amused myself with fancying Maria’s astonishment when she should
learn what the fates had in store for her.
 CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE RELUCTANT PROPOSAL.

“Zana, child, will you see to the chrysanthemums that were trailing
across the walk this morning?—they will be trodden down.”
I looked in Turner’s face as he said this, and felt a mischievous
smile quivering on my lips. The dear old fellow grew red as a winter
apple, then a grave, reproving look followed, and I was glad to escape
into the garden.
It was very wrong, I admit, but a curiosity to see how Turner would
make love overpowered all sense of honor. I confess to lingering in
sight of the windows, cautiously keeping myself out of view all the
time. Turner and Maria still kept their seats by the breakfast-table.
His face was toward me, but I could discern that one elbow was
pressed on the table, and he sat sideways, looking hard at the
opposite wall while speaking. But Maria was in full view, and a very
picturesque portrait she made framed in by the open window. I
watched her face as it changed from perplexity to wonder, from
wonder to a strange sort of bashful pleasure. Her cheeks grew red;
her great, black, Spanish eyes lighted up like those of a deer; yet she
seemed ashamed of the feelings speaking there, as if they were
unbecoming to her years.
All at once she arose, and, coming round the table, leaned against
the window-frame. This movement brought me within hearing, but I
could not escape without being discovered; so after taking one wrong
step, I was forced into another still more dishonorable. At first Maria
spoke in her usual broken English, which I cannot attempt to give, as
its peculiarity lay rather in the tone than the words.
“This is very strange, Mr. Turner. Why do you speak of this thing
now after so many years? What has happened that you talk to me of
marriage? You say it is better for the child—better for us all. But
why?”
“I will make a good husband to you—at any rate do the best I can!”
pleaded poor Turner, sadly out of place in his love-making.
“Perhaps you have fallen in love with me all of a sudden,” said my
bonne, half bitterly, half in a questioning manner, as if she faintly
hoped he would assent to the idea.
“I—what, I fall in love!” cried Turner, and his face writhed into a
miserable smile; “it isn’t in me to make a fool of myself at this age. I
hope you have a better opinion of me than that.”
She answered rapidly, and partly in Spanish. There was a good
deal of womanly bitterness in her voice, but I could only gather a few
hasty ejaculations.
“You joke, Mr. Turner—you mock—you have found a way of
amusing yourself with the lone stranger. I know that you always
hated us Spaniards, but you never mocked me in this way till now.”
“There it is again,” exclaimed the poor suitor. “I guessed how it
would all turn out; never did know how to manage one of the sex—
never shall! Look here, Maria, I’m in earnest—very much in earnest;
ask Lady Catherine—ask Zana if I’m not determined on it.”
Turner gathered himself up, moved awkwardly enough toward
Maria, and taking her hand looked at it wistfully, as if quite uncertain
what to do next.
“I never kissed a woman’s hand in my life,” he said, desperately,
“but I’ll kiss yours, on my soul I will, if you’ll just marry me without
more ado.”
She leaned heavily against the window, and said more temperately,
“Say, why have you asked this of me?”
I do not know what Turner would have replied, for, obeying the
impulse of the moment, I came forward, and before either of them
were aware of my approach, stood in the room.
“Tell her the whole, dear Mr. Turner,” I said, going up to Maria
with a degree of reverence I had never felt for her before. “She ought
to know it—she must know that you are asking her to marry you that
Lady Catherine may not turn us all adrift on the world; that the
people may stop pointing at me because I have no father.”
 Maria flung her arms around me.
“There—there!” exclaimed Turner, moving toward the door, “you
see I’ve done my best, Zana, and have got everybody crying. Tell her
yourself, child; just arrange it between you; call for me when all’s
ready; what I say I stand to.”
The old man writhed himself out of the room, leaving Maria and I
together.
My good, bonne was greatly agitated, and besought me to explain
the scene I had interrupted, but I could not well understand it
myself. All I knew was, that this marriage had been demanded by
Lady Catherine as a condition of our remaining in the house. I
repeated, word for word, what I had gathered of the conversation
between her and Turner, omitting only those expressions of
reluctance that had escaped my benefactor. She listened attentively,
but being almost a child, like myself, in English custom, could not
comprehend why this necessity had arisen for any change in our
condition.
“And do you hate Mr. Turner so much?” I said, breaking a fit of
thoughtfulness into which she had fallen. “I thought you liked each
other till now; don’t, oh, my bonne, don’t marry him if it troubles you
so! You and I can get a living somehow without taking him from his
place.”
“Yes—two children—why, Zana, you know more of the world than I
do. Where could we go?”
“I don’t know, without Mr. Turner, what we should do,” I
answered, sadly.
“Without him, why, Zana—without him we should both die!”
“Oh, Maria, my bonne, if you could but like Mr. Turner, only a
little, just enough to marry him, you know!” I exclaimed, amid my
tears.
“Like him, Zana? I have had nothing but him and you in the world
for years,” she said, weeping.
“Then you do like him—you will marry him!” I exclaimed, full of
joy.
She strained me to her bosom and kissed me in her old passionate
way. I sprang from her arms the moment they were loosened, and
ran off in search of Mr. Turner.
He was working in the garden, stamping the earth around a young
laburnum tree, which he had just planted, with a sort of ferocious
vehemence, as if striving to work away some lingering irritation.
“Go in and speak with her now,” I said, pulling his arm.
“No, I’ve made a fool of myself once, and that is enough!” he
answered, shaking me off. “I didn’t think any woman living could
have driven me to it.”
Still he moved toward the house.
That evening Mr. Turner was absent both from our cottage and the
Hurst. He came back the next day with a portentous-looking paper,
which he and Maria scanned over with great interest. When I asked
regarding it, they told me, with a good deal of awkwardness, that it
was a marriage license.
 CHAPTER XXXV.
THE JOVIAL WEDDING AND RANDOM SHOT.

Two or three mornings after this, I was sent over to the parsonage
to spend the day with Cora. Maria took more than usual care in
dressing me. I went forth in a white muslin dress, fluttering with
rose-colored ribbons, quite too fairy-like for my usual morning visits
to this my second home. But Cora was also floating about in clouds of
white muslin, with glimpses of azure here and there about her arms
and bosom, as if arrayed for some festival. How flowerlike was the
style of her loveliness! Those ringlets of glossy gold; the violet eyes
full of softness, downcast, and yet so brilliant when she smiled; the
rounded arms, the neck and shoulders, white and satiny as when I
first saw them by the spring; the little foot and hand, slender and
rosy: all these points of beauty are before me this instant, vividly as if
painted on canvas. There is a reason why they should have sunk deep
into my heart—a cruel reason which the hereafter will disclose.
Her father was in his clerical robes, walking up and down the little
parlor gently, as he always moved, and with a soft smile on his lips,
as if amusing himself with some odd fancy.
“Come in, my child,” he said, with a change of expression, brought
on, I felt, by a more serious current of thought which my appearance
suggested. “Come in—you will find Cora in her room.”
I paused, as was my habit, to kiss his hand in passing, but he
detained me a moment, pressing his lips upon my forehead.
“God bless you,” he said, “and make you worthy of all that your
friends are so willing to suffer in your behalf.”
I went away to Cora’s room. I have told you how very lovely she
appeared in her pretty dress, but it is impossible to describe the
graceful undulations of each movement, the bewitching softness of
her smile! My own olive complexion and deep bloom seemed coarse
and rude beside her.
“And so you have come to the wedding,” she said, wreathing her
arm around my waist, and drawing me before the little mirror at
which she had been dressing. “Isn’t it a droll affair altogether?”
“They are very kind, very good to me,” I replied, a little hurt by her
air of ridicule.
“And to me!” was her laughing reply; “this is the very first wedding
I shall have seen. Isn’t it charming. The people will be here from
Greenhurst; the young heir, perhaps.”
Why did that spasm shoot through my heart so suddenly? I was
looking upon the reflection of Cora’s beauty. It was a lovely vision,
but the color went from my own cheek as I gazed on hers, and that
made the contrast between us strange and darker. I remembered that
George Irving would look on that lovely vision also; and the first
sharp pang of jealousy known to my life tore its way through my
bosom. I did not know what it was, but sickened under it as the grass
withers beneath an Upas tree.
I struggled against myself, conscious that the feeling was wrong,
though ignorant of its nature, but other thoughts mingled with these
selfish ones. I was astonished and hurt that strangers should force
themselves upon a ceremony which the parties desired to be private.
It seemed rude and cruel to the last degree.
But I was called into the parlor. Turner and Maria were in sight
quietly crossing the fields together without the least pretention.
Maria looked nice and matronly in her dress of soft grey silk and cap
of snowy lace; Turner wore his ordinary suit of black, for he had long
since flung off livery, and bore his usual business-like appearance. It
was impossible to find anything to condemn in persons so free from
affectation of any kind. For my part I was proud of my benefactors;
there was a respectability about them that no ridicule could reach.
We entered a little church, and found it already occupied by a large
party of strangers, guests from Greenhurst. I saw Turner start and
change color as he went in, but pressing his thin lips together till they
were almost lost among his wrinkles, he walked firmly on, holding
Maria by the hand.