The heiress of Greenhurst

by Ann S. Stephens

“Nay, you have fairly earned the gold,” said the Englishman, bending his now bright and earnest eyes on my mother, with an expression that made every nerve in her body thrill, as if it had been touched to music for the first time—“take it for your grandam’s sake, my poor child!”

What charm possessed my mother? She who had been among the most eager when money was to be obtained—why did she shrink and blush at taking the gold from that generous palm? Why, when she happened to touch his hand in receiving it, did the warm blood leap to each finger’s end, till the delicately curved nails seemed red with some artificial dye? The gold gave her no pleasure at first. It seemed a sacrilege to receive it from him; but after a little it grew precious as her own life. Her grandmother went hungry to bed that night, for the gipsy girl would not part with this one piece of gold. She did not even acknowledge to any one that it had been given her, but hid it away close to her heart, and kept it there through many a sharp struggle that broke that poor heart at last. I have it in my bosom. It was necessary at times that I should feel it grating cold and hard, or something of tenderness would have crept there. I could not have gone through with all that I had to accomplish but for this gold—gold, gold. It is a fine thing to harden the heart with; in many ways men have found it so.

My mother took the money, then, with a faint blush and a smile that lighted up his face into absolute beauty, the young man said, “I see you hesitate; you will not believe the money is fairly earned. Now to set you at rest I will take the wreath you wear as full compensation. It will remind me hereafter of my first day at the Alhambra.”

My mother smiled, and her face kindled up with the pleasure his request had given. She unbound the wreath and presented it to him, ribbon and all.

That ribbon was the only ornament that she had in the world, but she parted with it joyfully; though the diamonds that Queen Isabella sacrificed to Christopher Columbus were not half so precious to their owner as this scarlet snood had been to the gipsy girl.

I have the ribbon too. That piece of gold is suspended to it about my neck—the first gift of my mother—the first gift of my father. He wore the ribbon around his neck at the death-hour. The gold also; alas! it was an awful hour when that piece of gold was laid in my palm.

The Englishman lingered for weeks at the Alhambra. He lived at a little Fonda that stands close beneath the ruins, sometimes spending whole days among the old Moorish remains, at others wandering thoughtfully beneath the stately trees.

My mother had spent her life in those woods. She could not change her habits now, for the love of those cool shadows had become a want of her whole being; but she danced the gipsy dances and sung the gipsy songs no more. Her companions wondered greatly at this, and triumphed over her with a wild glee that would have roused her indignation a few weeks before. Now, she turned from them with a quiet curve of scorn upon her lip, and stole away by herself, weaving garlands, and listening to the hidden waters that chimed their sweet voices in the solitude, whispering a thousand dreamy fancies, which deepened almost into sadness as time wore on.

I know not how often she saw the Englishman during that period. Not very frequently, I am sure; for she had become timid as a fawn, and would sit crouching among the thickets for hours, only to see him pass distantly through the dim veil of the forest leaves.

Night after night she went home from the woods empty-handed, and musing as if in a dream. Her grandame chided her sharply at times, for hunger made her stern. The gipsy girl bore this with surprising meekness, weeping gently, but never urging a word in her own defence, save that she did not know why, but it was impossible to dance as she had done; the strength left her limbs whenever she attempted it.