The heiress of Greenhurst

by Ann S. Stephens

At last Chaleco arose, trembling with weakness, and taking me in his arms again, staggered through the snow down the glen. The tribe stood in a great circle round a cairn that had not existed when we entered the “Valley of Stones.” The stillness appalled me. I broke from Chaleco’s feeble hold, and rushed forward, calling for my mother.

The old Sibyl seized me by the arm, pointed to the cairn, and answered, “She is there!” I looked fearfully upon the stony pyramid, but saw nothing, till my eyes fell downward to the snow at its base—it was crimson with blood. Then I knew what death was, and what her oath meant. I grew sick, turned, and staggering toward the gipsy chief, fell at his feet.

I remember, dimly, being in the cave once more, and seeing the old Sibyl counting gold into her lap. I remember, also, that Chaleco was there, and she said to him, pointing to me:

“No, she will not die, half the oath only is accomplished, she must do the rest.”

Then the cairn, with its reddened base, came before me, and I fell away again.

Months must have been oblivion to me, for my next clear idea was in England. I lay in a canvas tent pitched by the wayside, half way between Greenhurst and the neighboring village. Chaleco and the Sibyl were with me, dressed after the vagrant fashion of those broken tribes of our people who infest England. I was in rags, and seated on the ground, wondering how this change had been made. Chaleco stood by the entrance of the tent watching; the old woman kept in a remote corner, and while I pondered over the meaning of it all, a merry chime of bells swept across the fields, that made my heart leap. I broke into a laugh, and crept toward the entrance of the tent, enticed by the sunlight that sparkled on the sward.

I had placed myself at Chaleco’s feet, when the sound of an advancing cavalcade came from toward the village. Chaleco shaded his eyes, and I saw them glow like coals beneath his hand. First came a troop of children with baskets and aprons full of blossoms, scattering them thick in the highway. Then followed a carriage, with four black horses, streaming with rosettes and white ribbon, followed by others decorated after the same fashion, and filled with richly dressed people. The children halted, and gathered around the first carriage, tossing showers of roses over its occupants. In the midst of this blooming storm, I saw my father and that woman. The gleam of her silver brocade, the snowy softness of the bridal veil made me faint again. The snow drifts in the mountains of Spain, encrimsoned and trampled, swept before my dizzy senses. As I saw my father half enveloped by the waves of those glittering bridal garments, but still pale and looking so anxious, it seemed to me as if those soft drifts had been shovelled over him in mockery of my mother’s death.

I asked no question, but gathered from my companions, who conversed in cautious tones, that Lord Clare and his bride would rest some days at Greenhurst before entering upon their wedding tour. I had no strength, no spirit then. Instead of becoming angry, I was faint, and lay down in the tent, weeping feebly as another child of my years might have done in its illness.

I remember hearing shouts, and seeing flashes of fireworks that went off in the village that night, and I saw old Papita and Chaleco hold up a small vial between them and the lamp, filled with a purple liquid—then, as in a dream, they passed away from the tent.

It was deep in the night, when I started from my sleep. Papita was shaking me by the shoulder, her face was close to mine, and it looked like a death’s head.