The Gypsy Queen's Vow

Mrs. Moodie, though a fine lady, was sharp and “wide awake,” and in this cord she perceived some clue to the affair of the previous night. As she still gazed on it in the same way as a detective might, at the evidence of some secret crime, the young girl who had given Pet the cord passed through the hall and paused to look at the open door which Mrs. Moodie was so intently surveying. Her eye fell on the cord; she started, took a step forward, looking puzzled and surprised.

“It was no spirit, you see, that was rapping last night, Miss Hughes,” said Mrs. Moodie, sharply; “this cord has had something to do with it.”

“Why, that cord is mine – or rather was,” said the young lady, examining it; “we used to use it in our room for hanging pocket-handkerchiefs and collars to dry on.”

“Yours, Miss Hughes,” said Mrs. Moodie, facing round with an angry light rising in her eyes.

“It was mine, madam; I gave it last evening to the new pupil, Miss Lawless.”

“To Miss Lawless?”

“Yes, madam, when we were in the dormitory last night, she asked me for a string, and I brought her this, having no other; she has cut it, I see.”

“What did Miss Lawless want of it – do you know?”

“I do not know; she did not say; it is very strange how it can have got here.”

A new light suddenly flashed through the mind of Mrs. Moodie. She recollected what Pet’s father had told her of the mischief-loving propensities of that young lady. What if all her meekness and docility had been assumed! She glanced up at the window beside Pet’s bed, and instantaneously the whole truth dawned upon her.

And then a change most wonderful to see came over the features of Mrs. Moodie. Dark and stern, and determined, she turned from the door, untied the cord, and marched directly into the house.

“Miss Hughes,” she said, curtly, “go and tell all the teachers and pupils to assemble in the school-room at once. I think I have found out the origin of the disturbance now.”

Wondering and perplexed, Miss Hughes went and delivered her message; and on fire with eager curiosity, a universal rush was made for the classe, and in silent expectation they waited for the coming of Mrs. Moodie.

They had not long to wait. With a hard, metallic tramp, that announced her state of mind, that lady rustled in, and in ominous silence took her seat, motioning the others to resume theirs with a wave of her hand.

Every eye was bent upon her in silent awe, as they noticed her stiff, rigid sternness. Her eye passed over the rest, and like a hound scenting his prey, fixed itself piercingly on Pet.

“Miss Lawless,” she said, in a stern, measured tone, “come here.” “Stars and stripes!” ejaculated Pet, inwardly, as she rose to obey; “can she have found me out so soon? Oh, Pet Lawless, maybe you ain’t in for it now!”

All eyes were now turned in silent amazement on Pet. Slowly Mrs. Moodie thrust her hand in her pocket, still sternly transfixing Pet with her eyes, and drew out – a piece of cord!

At the sight, all Pet’s doubts were removed; she was discovered. Then all personal apprehensions vanished, her perverse spirit rose, and bold, dauntless and daring she stood before her stern judge – her straight, lithe form defiantly erect, her malicious black eyes dancing with fun.

“Miss Lawless, do you know anything of this?” demanded Mrs. Moodie, holding it up.

“Slightly acquainted,” said Pet; “saw it last night for the first time.”

“Will you be kind enough to state for what purpose you borrowed it?”

“Yes’m, to have some fun with.”

“Fun! pray be a little more explicit, Miss Lawless. Was it you that tied it to the door, last night?”

“Yes’m.”

“And by that means you knocked at the door, and created all the alarm and confusion that so terrified us all,” said Mrs. Moodie with a rapidly darkening brow.

“Yes’m,” said Pet, loudly, nothing daunted.

A low murmur of surprise and horror, at this atrocious confession ran round the room.

“And what was your design in thus throwing the household into terror and consternation, Miss Lawless?”

“I told you before – just for fun,” said Pet, coolly.

Mrs. Moodie compressed her lips, and though her sallow face was dark with suppressed anger, she remained outwardly calm. Low murmurs of amazement, anger and indignation ran through the room; but Pet stood upright, bold and defiant before them all, as though she had done nothing whatever to be ashamed of.

“Perhaps, then, since you are so fond of practical jokes, you were the ghost Miss Sharpe saw, likewise,” said Mrs. Moodie.

“Yes, I was,” said Pet, darting a flashing glance at that lady, who sat listening, with hand and eyes uplifted in horror.

“No, she wasn’t,” said Miss Sharpe; “the one I saw was all on fire.”

“Silence, Miss Sharpe! leave the matter to me,” said Mrs. Moodie, sternly. Then turning to Pet: “Since you are so candid, Miss Lawless, will you inform me in what manner you rendered yourself so frightful an object?”

“Yes, it was easy enough,” said Pet. “I just rubbed some phosphureted ether on my hands and face. It shone in the dark and scared her; and that was all I wanted.”

A profound silence for one moment reigned throughout the room. Every one sat, overwhelmed, looking at each other as though unable to credit what they heard.

“And what evil motive had you in terrifying us so?” resumed Mrs. Moodie, after a pause.

“I hadn’t any evil motive. I just wanted fun, I tell you. Papa sent me here, and I didn’t want to come, but I had to; so, as it was horrid dull here, I thought I’d just amuse myself scaring you all, and I can’t see where was the harm either! I’ve always been used to do as I like, and this ain’t no circumstance to what’s to come next!” And Pet’s flashing eyes blazed open defiance.

Mrs. Moodie rose from her seat, her sallow complexion almost white with anger, her sharp eyes bright with an angry light.

“Some one else will have a voice in this matter, Miss Lawless. Had I been aware of the sort of girl you were, rest assured that, much as I respect your father, you should never have entered here. In all my experience it has never been my misfortune to encounter so much depravity in one so young. I shall instantly write to your father to come and take you home, for no inducement could persuade me to allow you to become a member of this establishment. You will consider yourself expelled, Miss Lawless, and must leave the house as soon as your father can come to take you home.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m glad of it,” said Pet, impatiently; “for of all the stupid old holes I ever saw, this is the worst! I wouldn’t be paid to stay here – no, not if you were to make me President to-morrow for it.”

“No such inducement is likely to be offered, Miss Lawless. Your presence here, I can assure you, is not coveted. Miss Sharpe, take this young lady to one of the spare rooms, and remain there to watch her until her father comes and removes her. Young ladies, you will now resume your studies as usual.”

And with a frigid bow, Mrs. Moodie swept from the room, leaving all behind her lost in a maze of wonder and indignation.

Miss Sharpe, with her little eyes glistening, approached and took Pet by the shoulder, to lead her from the room, but Pet angrily jerked herself free from her hated touch, and exclaimed:

“Let me alone! I can walk without your help. Go ahead and I’ll follow, but keep your hands to yourself.”

Miss Sharpe, finding herself foiled even in the moment of victory, walked sullenly on, and Pet, with head up and elbows squared, tripped after her to the solitude of “one of the spare rooms,” where every amusement was debarred her but that of making faces at Miss Sharpe.

An hour after, a long epistle, detailing in glowing colors Pet’s wicked actions of the night before, was dispatched by Mrs. Moodie to Judge Lawless.

The result of it was, that the evening of the second day after, that gentleman arrived, nearly beside himself with rage.

Then Mrs. Moodie recapitulated the whole affair, and ended by protesting that no amount of money could prevail upon her to keep so vicious a child in her school another day. All her pupils would become depraved by her example; and the result would be, their parents would take them home, and thus she would lose her school. Judge Lawless haughtily replied she need be under no apprehension, for he would instantly take his daughter home.

Pet was accordingly dressed, her baggage packed up, and brought down to her father.

With all her boldness she yielded for a moment as she met his eye. But without one single word of comment, he motioned her to precede him into the carriage; and in silence they started.

During the whole journey home, the judge never condescended to open his mouth or address her a single word. Pet, just as well pleased to be left to herself, leaned back in the carriage to meditate new mischief when she would get home.

But Miss Petronilla Lawless soon found she was not quite so much her own mistress as she thought.

The evening of the second day brought them to Judestown. As they passed the village, entered the forest road, and came within sight of old Barrens Cottage, Pet began to think of Ray and wonder how he was, and if it would be safe to ask her father to let her go in and see.

One glance at that gentleman’s face, however, convinced her that it would not be safe, and that prudence was by far the safest plan just then. Hoping Erminie might be at the door as she passed, she thrust her head out of the carriage window, when her father silently caught her by the shoulder, pulled her back with no gentle hand, and shut down the blind.

Then the very demon of defiance sprung into the eyes of the elf; and facing round, she was about to begin a harangue more spirited then respectful; but something in the cold, stern, steely eye bent on her quenched the indignant light in her own and she sulkily relapsed into silence, thinking a “dumb devil” would be more agreeable to her father just then than a talking one.

Ranty was out on the veranda, walking up and down with his hands in his pockets and whistling “Yankee Doodle.” Pet favored him with a nod as she tripped into the house, while Ranty’s eyes grew as large as two full moons in his amazement. Darting after her, he caught her by the arm as she was entering the door and exclaimed:

“I say, Pet; what in the world brings you home again? I thought you were gone to school!”

“So I was.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Finished my education. Told you I would in a week,” said Pet, with a nod.

“Randolph, go off and mind your business, sir,” exclaimed his father, sternly. “Here – this way, you.”

So saying he caught Pet by the shoulder, and unceremoniously drew her after him, upstairs into the library. Then shutting the door, he threw himself into his arm-chair, and folding his arms across his chest, favored Pet with an awful look.

Miss Lawless, standing erect before him, bore this appalling stare without blushing.

“Well, and what do you think of yourself now, Miss Petronilla Lawless?” was the first question he deigned to ask her since their meeting.

“Just what I did before,” said Pet, nothing daunted.

“And what may that be, pray?” said her father, with an icy sneer.

“Why, that I’m a real smart little girl, and can keep my word like a man! I said I’d finish my education and be back in a week, and – here I am.”

A dark frown settled on the brow of the judge, as he listened to this audacious reply; but, maintaining an outer semblance of calmness, he asked:

“And how have you determined to spend your time for the future, Miss Lawless?”

“Just as I did before – riding round and visiting my friends.”

A chilling smile settled on the lips of the judge.

“So that is your intention, is it? Well, now hear mine. Since you will neither stay at school nor behave yourself as a young lady should when at home, I shall sell your pony and procure you a tutor who will be your teacher and guard at the same time. Whenever you move from the house, either he or I will accompany you; and I shall take proper steps to prevent your visiting any of those you call your friends. You will find, Miss Lawless, I am not to be disobeyed with impunity in the future. Perhaps, after a time, if I find you docile and attentive to my orders, I may forget your past misconduct and restore you some of your privileges again. This, however, will entirely depend on the manner in which you conduct yourself. I have already a gentleman in view who will undertake the office of tutor, and until he comes I shall have you locked in your room and your meals brought up to you. Not a word, Miss Lawless. I have borne with your impertinence too long, and you will now find I can adopt a different course. Solitude will cool your blood, I trust, and bring you to your senses.”

So saying, the judge calmly arose, rung the bell and then reseated himself.

You should have seen how Pet stormed and raved, and scolded, then, vowing she would kill herself; she would jump out of the window; she would set the house afire and burn them all in their beds; she would have no tutor; she would murder him if he came.

The judge listened to all this with the most perfect indifference, until the entrance of a negress put an end to the scene.

“Take Miss Petronilla up-stairs to the attic, and lock her in,” was the judge’s command.

But he soon found this was easier said than done; for, seizing a small chair, Pet brandished it over her head, and threatened instant annihilation to the first who would come near her.

The judge arose, and with a sudden snatch caught hold of it. Pet clung to it like a hero, scolding and vociferating at the top of her lungs still; but she was as a fly in her father’s grasp, and she was speedily disarmed and pinned.

“I will bring her up myself. Stand out of the way, Dele,” said the judge.

Holding her firmly, the judge drew her with him up-stairs, opened the attic door, thrust her in, locked it, and left Miss Pet in solitude and darkness, and to her own reflections.

There was no window in the attic, so her threat of casting herself from it went for naught. As for her other threats, the judge paid about as much attention to them as he would to the buzzing of a fly on the window. He then mounted his horse, and rode off having given orders that Miss Petronilla’s meals should be regularly brought to her, but on no condition should she be allowed to get out.

Pet, for once fairly conquered, sat down, determined to do something desperate; and in this frame of mind she was discovered by Ranty, who, hearing of her melancholy fate, came up-stairs and took his station outside the door.

“Hillo, Pet!” he began.

“Hillo, yourself,” replied Pet, sulkily.

“You’re locked up – ain’t you?” went on Ranty.

“Where’s your eyes? Can’t you see I am?” snapped Pet.

“Well, you know it serves you right,” said Ranty, by way of consolation, as he took out a jack-knife and began to whittle.

“Oh! if I was only out at him,” muttered Pet, between her teeth.

“You haven’t seen Erminie since you came home, I suppose,” said Ranty.

“No, I haven’t! You know very well I haven’t,” said Pet, crossly. “How’s Ray?”

“Oh, he’s first-rate – up and about. His wound didn’t amount to much. I’m going over there now; got any message to send?”

“No; only to bid them good-by. I never expect to see any of them again,” said Pet, with a deep groan.

“Why, where are you going?” asked Ranty, in surprise.

“To commit suicide. Do you know if choking hurts much, Ranty?”

“Can’t say – never tried it. If it’s an easy death, just let me know when you’ve done it. I’m off.” And Ranty decamped, whistling; and Pet was left locked up in the garret.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER

“A brow whose frowns are vastly grandAnd eye of star-lit brightness:A swan-like neck, and arm and handOf most bewitching whiteness.”– Praed.

And now, reader, are you willing to retrace your steps with me, and go back to those we left behind, long ago, in England?

The sudden death of the Earl De Courcy fell heavily on the hearts of Lord Villiers and Lady Maude; but they mourned as those on whom the heaviest blow Fate can bestow has already fallen, and all other griefs seemed light in comparison.

The servants spoke of the dark, shrouded figure who had been seen to enter but never depart; but as it was evident the earl had died, and not been murdered, no suspicion was attached to this. And so, with stately pomp and ceremony, Hugh Seyton, fourth Earl De Courcy, was laid to rest in the family vault, and Lord Villiers took the title, and was now fifth Earl De Courcy.

In the bustle of the funeral, and the duties of his elevated station he found means to withdraw his mind at times from the loss of his child; but his lovely countess mourned still, and “would not be comforted.”

Had she been assured of Erminie’s death, she would have grieved, it is true: but not as she grieved now. Had she beheld her beautiful child laid in the grave, she would have mourned; but not with mourning like this.

What had been her fate? Was she living or dead? into whose hands had she fallen? What would be her future fate?

Night and day, these thoughts were ever uppermost in her mind, darkening her very soul with anguish and despair. Enormous rewards had been offered for the slightest clue to her abductor; for upward of a year, the keenest detectives in England were put on the track. But all was in vain. The wide sea rolled between parents and child, and as well might they looked for last year’s snow as for lost Erminie. And so at last the search was given up in despair; the sensation it had created died away; the circumstance was almost forgotten by all but the bereaved parents. But they – oh! never could they forget sweet, blue-eyed little Erminie! While the search continued, Lady Maude had hoped. Day after day passed, and no tidings were brought her of the lost one; but still she wildly hoped. Month after month waned away; no trace of her child could be discovered, and still she madly hoped. Each day she rose with beating heart, at the thought that perhaps before night sweet Erminie might be restored. Every passing footstep sent a thrill to her heart, in the anticipation that it might be the bearer of the glad tidings. Through all the long, weary months of vain watching and waiting, she had hoped against hope until the last.

But now – now when the search was given over in despair – came the full realization of her utter bereavement. Then the mortal anguish and despair she had long struggled against overwhelmed her soul; and, hating the sunlight, the glad earth, and bright sky above, she buried herself in deepest mourning, shut out the light from her room, and, in silence and darkness, still mourned for her lost one, and “would not be comforted.”

On the heart of her husband the blow had fallen no less heavily; but crushing back his bitter sorrow to his own noble heart, he calmed himself to console her. Of all her friends – of all who loved her, she would admit no one to her presence but him; and folded to his heart, she sat for hours, day after day, white, still, cold, and silent. When he left her, she threw herself on her couch, and, in the same strange stupor, remained there until he came back.

At first, he had permitted Nature to have her way, thinking her sorrow would be less enduring if left to wear itself out; but when months and months passed, and no change came, and he saw her growing whiter and more fragile day after day, he began to think it was time something else was done to rouse her from this destroying grief.

“Maude, Maude! this is wrong – this is sinful!” he said, holding her little wan hands, and looking sadly down into the white, cold face. “This rebellious murmuring must not be indulged longer. Dearest Maude, rouse yourself from this trance of despair, and remember our Erminie is in the hands of One who ‘doeth all for the best.’ He who noteth even the fall of a sparrow will protect our angel child.”

A shiver, a shadow, a fluttering of the heart, and that was all. No words came from the pale lips.

“Have faith, sweet wife, and trust in God. Overcome this selfish grief, and remember there still remain many for you to love – many who love you. Live for them, my own Maude; live for me; live for the heaven where our Erminie has gone.”

“Oh, my child! my child! Would to God I had died for thee!” broke in a passionate cry from the white lips of the mother.

The manly chest of Lord De Courcy rose and fell; the muscles of his face twitched for a moment convulsively, and his arms strained her in a closer clasp.

“Our child prays for her mother in heaven. Grieve not for her, dear love. And am I not left to you still?”

“Oh! it was my fault – it was my fault! I left her alone, helpless and unprotected, while I was enjoying myself down-stairs. There was no one to watch her – no one to save her. All were gone, and she was left to perish! Oh, my child! my child!”

No words can describe the agony, the remorse, the undying despair of her tones, so full of a mother’s utmost woe. Then blessed tears came to her relief and, bowing her head on her husband’s shoulder, she wept convulsively.

It was the first time she had shed a tear since the loss of her child. Lord De Courcy hailed this as a favorable symptom, and permitted her to weep, undisturbed, until the very violence of her grief had exhausted itself; and then raising her head, and smoothing back the dark curls from her high, pale brow, he said, softly:

“My Maude is morbid in her grief. She has nothing to reproach herself with. Since Heaven willed we should lose one angel it gave us, is it not our duty to be resigned?”

“Oh! if she had died – if I knew she were sleeping quietly in her grave, I could be resigned. But this dreadful uncertainty is killing me. Oh, Ernest! since God gave me two children to love, why has He decreed I should lose them both?”

It was the first time since her marriage she had spoken of that other child; and, for one instant, Lord De Courcy’s brow grew dark at the unpleasant memories it brought back. The shadow was gone as quickly as it came; and, stooping down, he pressed a kiss on her brow, as he replied:

“He knows best, love. If He has given us griefs, was He not a sufferer of sorrow himself? Rouse yourself from this lethargy of grief, Maude. Does it console you to make those around you wretched? For, Maude, I can not tell you how much it adds to my grief – how miserable it makes all those who love you, to see you yield to this lethargy of despair. Do you think I do not feel the loss of our beautiful child? And yet, Maude, I do not give way to this utter abandon of despair, because I know it is positively wrong. There is a sort of luxury in yielding to grief, and permitting it to have its way; but it is an essentially selfish luxury; and I trust my Maude will view it in its proper light, and pray for a more Christian spirit.”

“Forgive me, my husband,” she softly murmured. “Bear with me a little longer. I know I am weak and rebellious; but oh! there never was sorrow like unto mine!”

But from that day, a change was manifest in Lady Maude. Loving her husband with almost adoring worship, for his sake she strove to shake off the “luxury of grief” he had spoken of, and resume her place in the world as before. At first, the trial was hard – almost too hard for her to bear, but his pleasant smile, his thrilling whisper of thanks, the earnest pressure of his hand, told her her efforts were understood and appreciated, and more than rewarded her for the sacrifice she had made.

And thus five years glided away, unmarked by any event worth recording.

The young Earl De Courcy as a statesman and politician, had become a demigod with the public, and one of the leading men of the day. In the whirl of busy life, in the maelstrom of politics, little Erminie was not forgotten, but her memory had grown to be a sweet, haunting shadow of the past – a tender, beautiful recollection, that came to him like a strain of sweet music heard amid the discordant crash and din of the busy world. He thought of her now as an angel-visitant, sent to smile on him for a moment, and then taken back to the heaven from which she had come, to pray for him there.

The intense sorrow of the Countess De Courcy had also been subdued and rendered far less poignant by time. She too, had been obliged, by her elevated position, to resume that place in the fashionable world she was so well fitted to fill. But when in the glittering assembly, the brilliant ball, the gorgeous pageant, was sweet, lost Erminie forgotten? Never? Outwardly, that one great sorrow had left its traces still in the deeper pallor of the lovely face, in the subdued light of the large, melancholy dark eyes, in the soft, tender smile that seemed something holy as it hovered around the sweet, beautiful lips. It had made her a gentler, better woman, with a heart ever melting at the cry of distress, with a hand ever ready to relieve it. It had humbled her pride; it had elevated her soul; it had made her gentle, tender, and more saintly then ever before. Her love for children amounted almost to a passion; those “human flowers,” as some one prettily calls them, could at any time arrest her attention, and make her forget all else. Not a child among all the earl’s tenantry that had not received proof of her affection, in the shape of creature-comforts and even as she idolized children, so was she invariably loved by them in return.