The heiress of Greenhurst

When it drew toward midnight, and she saw me, to all appearance, sleeping tranquilly on the floor, I heard a movement in the room as if my mother were preparing to go out. I opened my eyes and watched.

She took up the cashmere shawl and folded it over her head and person, leaving only the face exposed, after the fashion of a Spanish mantilla. Her face looked thin, but very beautiful, surrounded by those gorgeous colors, for her cheeks were of a burning scarlet; and her eyes—in my life I have never seen an expression like theirs. It was like the reflection of a star in deep waters. She stole out through the balcony. I heard her descend to the garden, and followed, actuated, I think, by a vague dread that she was about to leave me forever.

She threaded the wilderness with a quick step, and kept her way through the grounds cut up into thickets and flower-beds that lay around Greenhurst. I do not think that she had ever been there before in her life, but she seemed to find the way by intuition. I followed close, but unseen, and to my surprise saw her pass into the hall by the back entrance, through which Lord Clare had led me. The door was not entirely closed after her, and I crept through. The hall was dark, but she moved noiselessly on, gliding like a shadow up the broad staircase.

Now I was guided only by the faint ripple of her garments, for the upper halls lay in perfect darkness, and she was more in advance.

I saw by the glow of light that came into the darkness, that a door had been softly opened, in which a lamp was burning, and moved along the wall till I stood in view of a bed-chamber lighted as with moonbeams, for a lamp had been placed within an alabaster vase, evidently for this subduing purpose. I saw nothing distinctly in the room, but have a vague remembrance of a cloud of azure silk and rich lace brooding in one corner of the chamber—a couch underneath, white as mountain snow, and on it that woman, asleep, and my mother gazing upon her.

The sleeper scarcely seemed to breathe. A narcotic influence was evidently upon her, which had been used to still some previous pain; but all traces of anguish had departed from her forehead, from which the bright hair was swept back, giving its broad, massive grandeur to the light. A halo of happiness lay upon her face that made your breath come quick; the wealth of a great soul seemed breaking over her noble features as she slept. The eyes underneath those broad lids were swimming in joy, that broke through like perfume from the white leaves of a rose. The atmosphere which hung about her seemed warm and fragrant, like that of an Indian summer in North America.

There stood her contrast, my gipsy mother, with the hot blood of her race burning in her eyes, her forehead, and that now firm mouth. I looked in her face, and thought she was about to spring upon her prey, for the passions burning there grew fierce as death. She bent down and scrutinized the sleeper, then felt in her hair, and looked sharply around the room, I thought for some weapon.

“My oath, my oath!” she muttered, casting her great eyes around, “nothing but death can separate us; why not her death?”

I sprang forward, wild with terror, and caught hold of her dress.

“Mamma, oh, mamma, come away, come away,” I pleaded, in a whisper.

She yielded to me, and walked slowly from the chamber, like one moving in a dream.

“Hush!” she said, as we stood in the hall, “I thought it had been his room. Where is it, child, you know?”

“Come away—come away!” I whispered, still keeping a firm grasp on her dress. “It is dark—I’m afraid.”

She broke from me, and I lost her. The faint sound of a foot reached me once, but I had no courage to follow, and cowered down in the hall, shivering and noiseless. It seemed to me that I remained a year in that black stillness. I could endure it no longer, but groped my way to the staircase out into the open air.

The moon was up, but overwhelmed by an ocean of clouds. Now and then a leaden gleam broke out, and this gave me courage to wait and watch.

She came forth at last, and when I sprang toward her, caught me firmly by the hand.

“Come,” she said, “the oath falls back here—the gipsy blood will not fail me when it is only us.”

“What do you mean, mamma? Have you seen him, the Busne?”

“Yes!”

“Was he awake, mamma?”

“Awake!” and her laugh was fearful. “Child, do you think he could sleep?—can ever sleep again?”

“Did he say anything? Was he sorry for striking me?”

“Hush!” said my mother, sharply, “he has struck us both, the body for my child—the heart for me!”

“Did you strike him back, mother?”

“No, but I will. The stone that crushes me shall fall on his soul.”

Now I recognized my gipsy mother. She turned to me, and a straggling moonbeam touched her face.

“Zana, do you know what an oath is?”

“Yes, mamma, I heard you mention the word in your sleep, and so asked Turner.”

“I have sworn an oath, Zana. Will you help me keep it?”

“I will help you, mamma.”

“Let me make you strong with my kisses, Zana, you are no child.”

I clung to her, answering back that wild caress, for my heart was burning with a sense of her wrongs.

“I was a child once, mother, but that has all gone by. I am something else now; not a woman like you, but sharper, like a little dagger with bright stones on the hilt, that you sometimes fasten up your hair with. The handle is so pretty; but the point, isn’t that sharp?”

“It was well I left it behind, to-night, Zana.”

“You could not leave me behind, I would go!”

“Are you tired, Zana?”

“No.”

“Walk fast then, for we must be a long way from this before morning.”

“Where are you going, mother?”

“To keep my oath!”

We entered the cottage for the last time. My mother must have anticipated what was to happen, for she took me into her room, tore off my pretty scarlet frock, and replaced it with the garments of a little boy. Her own dress she changed also, and we left the house together, both clad in male garments, and each carrying a little bundle in our hands.

Where we went first, I do not know. The events of that day and night were burned upon my memory, but after that I had only a vague idea of travelling day after day—of broad, stormy seas, a river that ran with waves of dull gold, orange groves, wild hills, and at last a city in the midst of beautiful plains, filled with antique houses, and beyond with snow-capped mountains looming against the sky. The grim towers of a ruin fixed itself on my memory, frowning between the city and those mountain-tops, and when I asked my mother of the name of this city and ruin, she answered briefly, “Granada, the Alhambra,” nothing more.

I was not surprised at this, for since we left Greenhurst, she had scarcely uttered a longer sentence.

It was sunset when we came in sight of Granada. She paused in a recess of the hills, and opening our bundles, changed her dress and mine, casting away the male attire. I remember gazing at her with wonder as she stood before me in her strange dress. The blue bodice, the short crimson skirt, flowered and heavy with tarnished gold, the gorgeous kerchief knotted under her chin, this dress had been the contents of her bundle. Mine was more simple, a frock of maize-colored stuff broidered with purple. My feet and ankles were bare to the knees.

My mother bent down and kissed me.

“Are you a child now, Zana?”

“No, I am what you are.”

“Come.”

We descended into the Vega and passed through Granada long after dark. I was very tired and faint, but kept up with my mother, determined to hold firm to my promise. During our whole journey I had not once complained. We left the city and entered a deep, gloomy ravine, lighted up by a host of internal fires, that seemed to burn in the bosom of the hill. Wending along the dusty road, I saw that all the embankment was cut up into holes, from which the lights came, and that these were swarming with human beings.

We walked on, speaking to no one, till my mother stopped before one of these caves of which the door was shut. She paused, and for one instant I felt her tremble, but the emotion was gone in a breath, and pushing the door open, she went in.

A little old woman sat in one end of the cave, rocking to and fro on a wooden stool, beneath the beams of a smoky lamp that stood in a niche over her head. The creature arose as we entered, passed one skeleton hand over her eyes, and muttered “who comes—who dares open my door, when I once shut it for the night?”

“One who fears nothing now, not even you, grandame,” said my mother, advancing firmly up the cave.

The old woman kept her hand above those gleaming eyes, and pored keenly over the haggard face before her.

“Why have you come back?” she said, fiercely.

“To keep my oath, grandame!”

“Your oath. Is he dead, then? Is it his blood that makes your face so white!”

“No, he is safe—it may be, happy,” answered my mother, and for the first time since we left England, I heard her voice falter. “He repudiates the caloe marriage. He loves another. I saw her under his roof. He will make her his wife. Grandame, I have come back to die. It is all of my oath that I can redeem.”

“Under his roof? he will marry her. Girl, where was Papita’s poniard, that you did not strike?”

“She looked innocent in her sleep. I could not do it. She knew nothing of me, of my wrongs, or the vengeance that threatened her. A word would have stabbed her deeper than your poniard, grandame, but I could not speak it.”

“You came away, and left her alive?” shrieked the old woman fiercely.

“I could not kill the thing he loved,” answered my mother, with pale firmness.

“You came away, leaving these two traitors to marry and scoff at the gipsy!”

“The lady knows nothing, and cannot scoff at us. He will never revile one who could have driven her from his path by pointing to his child, and saying only, ‘he has been mine!’ but chose rather to come here and die.”

“It is useless, grandame—these frowns, the locking of those sharp teeth. The desperate have no fear. I have disgraced my people, and am ready to redeem my oath.”

“And what is this?” said Papita, touching me with a loathing scowl.

“My child, and his,” answered my mother, and I felt her fingers close tight on my hand.

“Oh, you did well to bring her. There is yet a drop of the old blood left; I see it in her face.”

The weird creature drew nearer and kissed me. I bore it without a shudder.

“Can it be to-morrow?” said my mother, calmly, as if she had been speaking of a June festival.

“Yes,” was the savage reply. “The people will not wait, Chaleco, most of all.”

“Let him be sent for.”

“No,” said the Sibyl with a touch of feeling, “he shall not gloat over your shame more than the rest. Go in yonder—you have broken one half the oath, for the rest”——

“I am ready—I am ready, only let it be soon,” said my mother—“at daylight.”

“In yonder! daylight will soon come,” answered the Sibyl, pointing to the inner room. “I will go and prepare the people. They thought you dead. How they will stare when Papita tells them of her trick. They think her old, worn out, dull—she who can throw sand in the eyes of a whole tribe.”