The heiress of Greenhurst

by Ann S. Stephens

I think it was three or four days after Lord Clare’s funeral, when Turner received a message from the Hurst. He seemed troubled, but made an evident effort to appear unconcerned. I saw him go with misgivings, for late events had left me in a state of nervousness that detected evils in every shadow. My presentiments were right. Lady Clare, the new countess, before leaving for her London house, among some other old and favorite servants, coldly ordered the old man away, unless he would send me, her brother’s orphan, from beneath his roof. Other changes were about to be made. The Marston Court living, which had been vacant more than a year, and which controlled that of Greenhurst, was given to Mr. Upham, who had taken orders and would assume it at once. This man now held Cora’s father in his power.

Everywhere was I hedged in and surrounded by foes; an Ishmaelitish feeling took possession of me amid my grief. The only friends that clung to me on earth were driven forth like dogs, because they gave me shelter. I knew well that Turner would not hesitate; that he would beg by the wayside rather than forsake the poor foundling he had cherished so long.

But he was now an old man, united to a woman scarcely more capable of working her way through ordinary life than a child. Should I permit him to be thus unhoused and thrust into new phases of life that I might share his little means of comfort? He loved our beautiful old dwelling. To send him from among the trees of that park would end like uprooting the oldest oak there. Not for me—not for me should this be done!

But Cora and her father, they had offered me a share in that pretty home by the church. This thought, for an instant, gave me pleasure; but was not the good man also dependent on a friend of Lady Catherine’s? I had almost said menial—for the soul renders baser services, sometimes, than the bare hands can give. Was not he also indirectly at the mercy of this new countess?

All night long I thought over these bitter reflections, and, spite of myself, an indignant sense of oppression—cruel, undeserved oppression, filled my soul. The iron of my nature broke up through the soil that had covered it for a time. The sibyl’s ear-rings grew precious to me. If cast out from one race, they were burning links which drew me to the darker and fiercer people, to whom persecution was an inheritance.

I arose in the morning and went to Greenhurst. The countess would have had me driven from her steps had I desired admission; but, well aware of this, I entered alone, unannounced, and made my way to her dressing-room.

The contrasts in that woman’s character were most repulsive. While her aims were all deep and cruel as the grave, their exhibition was always toned down by conventionalisms. While planning the ruin of a fellow creature, she would sit quietly curling the hair of her lapdog, as if that only occupied her mind.

When I entered her presence, she rose hastily from the depths of an easy-chair, in which she had been buried, and arranged the folds of a violet silk dressing-gown, with what seemed fastidious regard to the effect her delicate attempt at mourning would have upon the young gipsy. I was surprised at this. It seemed impossible that a woman so relentless could occupy herself with trivial attempts at display like this. Now, it seems the most natural thing on earth. Inordinate vanity and a savage want of feeling have linked themselves together through all history. The bad man or woman is almost invariably a vain one.

I think the woman took a mean pleasure in making her dog bark at me, for her hand was playing about his ears, and a hateful smile warped her lips as his snarling yelp died into a howl.

I took no heed, but walked up to her chair and rested one hand upon it. She shrunk back.