The heiress of Greenhurst

by Ann S. Stephens

I was about to speak.

“Hush, hush!” whispered the child, in a voice that reminded me of the waters stealing through the violet hollow, it was so liquid with tears, “see!”

Cora drew me closer to the object buried beneath those folds of velvet, and I saw, lying upon a satin pillow fast asleep, as I thought, the sweetest and palest face my young eyes had ever beheld. Waves of soft, golden hair lay upon the temples, and gleamed through the cold transparency of her cap; the waxen hands lay folded over her still heart, pressing down a white rose into the motionless plaits of fine linen that lay upon her bosom.

“Has she been long asleep?” I whispered.

“She is dead!” replied the child, with a fresh burst of tears.

Dead—dead! How the word fell upon my heart, uttered thus, with tears and shuddering, its meaning visible before me in that marble stillness. My very ignorance gave it force and poignancy. Its mysteriousness was terrible. I had no power to question further, but clung to the child no longer weeping, but hushed with awe.

It must have had a singular effect, my scarlet dress and rose colored bonnet, glowing like fire among the funeral vestments around me. But no one attempted to separate me from the child; and when the coffin was lifted, and the music once more swelled through the sacred edifice, we went forth clinging to each other. Though one of her hands was clasped in that of her father, I felt quite sure he was unconscious of my presence, for as they closed the coffin I could feel the shudder that ran through his frame, even though I touched the child only. He walked from the church like a blind man, capable of observing nothing but the black cloud that passed on before, sweeping his heart away with it.

We entered the church-yard, and there, beneath one of the tall trees, was a newly dug grave. I had seen it before, but it had no significance then; now my heart stood still as we gathered around it.

The trembling, that had shaken the child’s frame ceased. We both stood breathless and still as marble while the service was read; but when they lowered the coffin into the grave, I felt the pang that shot through her in every nerve of my own frame. She uttered no sound, but my arm was chilled by the coldness that crept over her neck and shoulders. I do not know how the crowd left us, but we stood alone by the grave with its fresh disjointed sods, and the brown earth gleaming desolately through the crevices.

All efforts at self-restraint gave way now that the widower found himself alone, for in our grief children are looked upon like flowers. Their sympathy is like a perfume; their innocence soothes the anguish they witness. Their little souls are brimful of beautiful charity, and their presence a foretaste of the heaven to which the Saviour likens them.