The heiress of Greenhurst

by Ann S. Stephens

Ah, what heavenly dreams possessed me during the days and weeks which I spent in that delightful little chamber! The delirium which accompanied my relapse into fever was like an experience in fairy land. Fantastic as the visions that haunted me were, the most glowing changes of beauty broke through them all. Music floated by me on each breath of air that gushed through the windows. Every sunbeam that stole through the gossamer curtains arched over me like a rainbow. It seemed to me that whole clouds of humming-birds floated through the room, filling it with the faint music of their wings. Then the pretty myths were chased away by fantastic little creatures in human form; smiling, fluttering, and full of the most exquisite fun, they trampled over my bed, and nestled, mischievously, among the blossom colored hangings. I became wild with admiration of their rosy bloom, of their comical ways. I laughed at their pranks by the hour, and strove with insane glee to catch them with my hand, or imprison them under the bed-clothes. But they always evaded me, making the most grotesque faces at my baffled efforts. I could see them waltzing in dozens upon the counterpane, and sitting upon my pillow tangling their tiny hands and feet in my hair, shouting, laughing, and turning summersets like little mad-caps whenever I made a dart at them with my hands. So we kept it up, these exquisite little imps, night and day, for we never slept—not we! the fun was too good for that!

There were only two of these creatures that did not seem to enjoy themselves, and they were so odd, such droll, tearful, melancholy things, that somehow their faces always made us stop laughing, though we could not suppress a giggle now and then at their solemn and sentimental way of doing things.

One was a queer little sprite, that looked so exquisitely droll with that tiny hat set upon his powdered hair, and the face underneath so comically anxious, that it quite broke my heart to look at the little fellow standing there with the tears in his eyes.

I remember puzzling myself a long time regarding the materials which composed his vest and small clothes, and of satisfying myself that they must have been made from the leaves of a tiger lily, peony, or some other great crimson blossom. The grave, drab coat, with its red facings, the golden buckles and hat, defied my imagination altogether; but the face, that anxious face, was dear old Turner’s, withered up to the size of a crab-apple. It seemed so sad, so mournful, I quite pitied him, but somehow couldn’t keep from laughing at the priggish little figure he cut. Then there was a funny little woman, just the least bit shorter, in a blue dress and large cap, held up by the queerest high-backed comb that spread out the crown like a fan. Her face was older and darker than the rest, a Spanish face, with something kind in it that sometimes kept me quiet minutes together. These two figures really saddened us—the rosy troop of sprites and myself—with their grave faces and muttered consultations with each other, as if life and death depended on what they were talking about.

Then the scene would change. These elfin revellers disappeared. Flashes of lightning and clouds of cold white snow came slowly over me, drifting, drifting, drifting; and in their midst that beautiful face, so icy, so white, with its great, mournful eyes looking down into mine, hour after hour—it haunted me then, it has haunted me ever since. Yet no fear ever came upon me; no superstitious dread crept through my frame; but a chillness, as if mountain snow were around me, nothing more.

At last this strange phantasmagoria cleared away; the elves gave up their gambols and disappeared, all but the old man and the woman. They gradually grew larger, and I knew that they were the good Spanish woman and Turner.

How tenderly these two persons nursed me during the slow convalescence that followed! How ardent was the love I gave back for this care, for mine was an impassioned nature! Every sensation that I knew, love, hate, grief, fear—nay, not fear, I think that was unknown to my nature from the first!—but all other sensations were passions in me. Generous sentiments predominated with me always. I say this when my life lies before me like a map, and every impulse of my soul has been analyzed with impartiality, and knowledge more searching than any man or woman ever gathered from the actions of his fellow man.

I saw Turner at stated periods, when he could escape from Greenhurst to inquire after my comforts, and caress me in his quaint, tender fashion. I had learned to watch for the hour of his coming with the most ardent impatience. He always brought me some pretty gift, if it were only a branch of hawthorn in flower, an early crocus, or a hatful of violets. He was an old, kind-hearted bachelor, and the poor child who had crept to his feet from the wayside, became the very pet and darling of a heart that had but one other idol on earth, and that was Lord Clare, his master.

Maria and I were alone in the house. The language in which she addressed me was not that which I spoke with Turner, but her caresses, her eager love were even more demonstrative than his. There was a pathos and power in her expressions of tenderness that he doubtless felt, but could not manifest in his own rougher language. She carried me in her arms while I was unable to walk, and sat by me as I played wearily with the rich toys, of which she found an endless variety in the closets and hidden places about the cottage.

I spoke her language well and without effort, for it seemed more native to my tongue than the English; and sometimes I would address Turner in some of its rich terms of endearment, but he always checked me with a grimace, as if the sound were hateful.