The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Gypsy Queen's Vow, by May Agnes Fleming This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Gypsy Queen's Vow Author: May Agnes Fleming Release Date: August 16, 2013 [eBook #43489] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GYPSY QUEEN'S VOW*** E-text prepared by Brenda Lewis, Pat McCoy, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org) and the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://archive.org/details/gypsyqueensvow00flemgoog THE GYPSY QUEEN’S VOW BY Mrs. MAY AGNES FLEMING [Pg 1] cover AUTHOR OF “THE DARK SECRET,” “THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE,” “THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFF,” “MAGDALEN’S VOW,” “THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN,” “THE RIVAL BROTHERS,” ETC. Copyright, 1875, by Beadle & Adams. NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY Publishers CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. Night and Storm 5 II. Mr. Toosypegs 7 III. The Lovers 17 IV. The Gypsy’s Vow 26 V. Mother and Son 30 VI. The Child-Wife 37 VII. The Mother’s Despair 49 VIII. Mr. Toosypegs “Turns up” Again 55 IX. The Secret Revealed 63 X. The Voice of Coming Doom 72 XI. Little Erminie 80 XII. Woman’s Hate 91 XIII. Retribution 98 XIV. The New Home 105 XV. “After Many Days.” 121 XVI. Master Ranty 132 XVII. Our Erminie 141 XVIII. Pet’s Peril 150 XIX. Playing with Edged Tools 161 XX. Firefly Goes to School 176 [Pg 3] XXI. Pet Begins her Education 187 XXII. Pet Finishes her Education 206 XXIII. The Adopted Daughter 215 XXIV. Pet Gives her Tutor a Lesson 224 XXV. Mr. Toosypegs in Distress 238 XXVI. Pet “Respectfully Declines.” 244 XXVII. Greek meets Greek 251 XXVIII. An Unlooked-for Lover 270 XXIX. Mr. Toosypegs in Distress Again 280 XXX. Miss Lawless in Difficulties 286 XXXI. The Outlaw’s Wife 296 XXXII. The Outlaw 307 XXXIII. Home from Sea 319 XXXIV. Face to Face 332 XXXV. Father and Son 341 XXXVI. The Outlaw’s Story 350 XXXVII. The Attack 361 XXXVIII. Lady Maud 373 XXXIX. The Dawn of a Brighter Day 384 XL. Chiefly Matrimonial 392 THE GYPSY QUEEN’S VOW. CHAPTER I. NIGHT AND STORM. “The night grows wondrous dark; deep-swelling gusts And sultry stillness take the rule by turn, While o’er our heads the black and heavy clouds Roll slowly on. This surely bodes a storm.” —Baillie. Overhead, the storm-clouds were scudding wildly across the sky, until all above was one dense pall of impenetrable gloom. A chill, penetrating rain was falling, and the wind came sweeping in long, fitful gusts—piercingly cold; for it was a night in March. It was the north road to London. A thick, yellow fog, that had been rising all day from the bosom of the Thames, wrapped the great city in a blackness that might almost be felt; and its innumerable lights were shrouded in the deep gloom. Yet the solitary figure, flitting through the pelting rain and bleak wind, strained her eyes as she fled along, as though, despite the more than Egyptian darkness, she would force, by her fierce, steady glare, the obscure lights of the city to show themselves. The night lingered and lingered, the gloom deepened and deepened, the rain plashed dismally; the wind blew in moaning, lamentable gusts, penetrating through the thick mantle she held closely around her. And still the woman fled on, stopping neither for wind, nor rain, nor storm—unheeding, unfeeling them all—keeping her fierce, devouring gaze fixed, with a look that might have pierced the very heavens, on the still far-distant city. There was no one on the road but herself. The lateness of the hour—for it was almost midnight—and the increasing storm, kept pedestrians within doors that cheerless March night. Now and then she would pass cottages in which lights were still glaring, but most of the houses were wrapped in silence and darkness. And still on, through night, and storm, and gloom, fled the wanderer, with the pitiless rain beating in her face—the chill blasts fluttering her thin-worn garments and long, wild, black hair. Still on, pausing not, resting not, never removing her steadfast gaze from the distant city—like a lost soul hurrying to its doom. [Pg 4] [Pg 5] [Pg 6] Suddenly, above the wailing of the wind and plashing of the rain, arose the thunder of horses’ hoofs and the crash of approaching carriage wheels. Rapidly they came on, and the woman paused for a moment and leaned again a cottage porch, as if waiting until it should pass. A bright light was still burning in the window, and it fell on the lonely wayfarer as she stood, breathing hard and waiting, with burning, feverish impatience, for the carriage to pass. It displayed the form of a woman of forty, or thereabouts, with a tall, towering, commanding figure, gaunt and bony. Her complexion was dark; its naturally swarthy hue having been tanned by sun and wind to a dark-brown. The features were strong, stern, and prominent, yet you could see at a glance that the face had once been a handsome one. Now, however—thin, haggard, and fleshless, with the high, prominent cheek-bones; the gloomy, overhanging brows; the stern, set, unyielding mouth; the rigid, corrugated brow; the fierce, devouring, maniac, black eyes—it looked positively hideous. Such eyes!—such burning, blazing orbs of fire, never was seen in human head before! They glowed like two live coals in a bleached skull. There was utter misery, there was despair unspeakable, mingled with fierce determination, in those lurid, flaming eyes. And that dark, stern terrific face was stamped with the unmistakable impress of a despised, degraded race. The woman was a gipsy. It needed not her peculiar dress, the costume of her tribe, to tell this, though that was significant enough. Her thick, coarse, jet-black hair, streaked with threads of gray, was pushed impatiently off her face; and her only head-covering was a handkerchief of crimson and black silk knotted under her chin. A cloak, of coarse, red woolen stuff, covered her shoulders, and a dress of the same material, but in color blue, reached hardly to her ankles. The brilliant head-dress, and unique, fiery costume, suited well the dark, fierce, passionate face of the wearer. For an instant she paused, as if to let the carriage pass; then, as if even the delay of an instant was maddening, she started wildly up, and keeping her hungry, devouring gaze fixed on the vision of the still unseen city, she sped on more rapidly than before. CHAPTER II. MR. TOOSYPEGS. “He bears him like a portly gentleman; And, to say truth, Vernon brags of him To be a virtuous and well-governed youth.” —Shakspeare. The vehicle that the gipsy had heard approaching was a light wagon drawn by two swift horses. It had two seats capable of holding four persons, though the front seat alone was now occupied. The first of these (for his age claims the precedence) was a short, stout, burly, thick-set, little man, buttoned up in a huge great-coat, suffering under a severe eruption of capes and pockets. An immense fur cap, that, by its antediluvian looks, might have been worn by Noah’s grandfather, adorned his head, and was pulled so far down on his face that nothing was visible but a round, respectable-looking bottle-nose, and a pair of small, twinkling gray eyes. This individual, who was also the driver, rejoiced in the cognomen of Mr. Bill Harkins, and made it his business to take belated wayfarers to London (either by land or water), when arriving too late for the regular conveyances. On the present occasion his sole freight consisted of a young gentleman with a brilliant-hued carpet-bag, glowing with straw- colored roses and dark-blue lilies, rising from a back-ground resembling London smoke. The young gentleman was a very remarkable young gentleman indeed. He was exceedingly tall and thin, with legs like a couple of pipe-stems, and a neck so long and slender that it reminded you of a gander’s, and made you tremble for the safety of the head balanced on such a frail support. His hair and complexion were both of that indefinite color known to the initiated as “whity brown”—the latter being profusely sprinkled with large yellow freckles, and the former as straight and sleek as bear’s grease could make it. For the rest, he was characterized by nothing in particular, but for being the possessor of a pair of large, pale-blue eyes, not remarkable for either brilliancy or expression, and for wearing the meekest possible expression, of countenance. He might have been eighteen years old, as far as years went; but his worldly wisdom was by no means equal to his years. “By jingo! that ’ere was a blast!” said Mr. Harkins, bending his head as a gale swept shrieking by. “Yes, it does blow, but I don’t mind it—I’m very much obliged to you,” said the pale young man, with the white hair and freckles, holding his carpet-bag in his arms, as if it were a baby. “Who said you did?” growled Bill Harkins. “You’ll be safe in Lunnon in half an ’our, while I’ll be a-drivin’ back through this ’ere win’ and rain, getting wetted right through. If you don’t mind it, I does, Mr. Toosypegs.” “Mr. Harkins,” said Mr. Toosypegs, humbly, “I’m very sorry to put you to so much trouble, I’m sure, but if two extra crowns—” “Mr. Toosypegs,” interrupted Mr. Harkins, with a sudden burst of feeling, “give us yer hand; yer a trump. It’s easy to be perceived, them as is gentlemen from them as isn’t. You’re one o’ the right sort; oughter to be a lord, by jingo! Get up, hold lazybones,” said Mr. Harkins, touching the near-wheeler daintily with his whip. [Pg 7] [Pg 8] “Mr. Harkins, it’s very good of you to say so, and I’m very much obliged to you, I’m sure,” said Mr. Toosypegs, gratefully; “but, at the same time, if you’ll please to recollect. I’m an American, and consequently couldn’t be a lord. There aren’t any lords over in America, Mr. Harkins; though if there was, I dare say I would be one. It’s real kind of you to wish it, though, and I’m much obliged to you,” added Mr. Toosypegs, with emotion. “Hamerica must be a hodd sorter place,” said Mr. Harkins, reflectively. “I’ve heern tell that your king—” “He isn’t a king, Mr. Harkins; he’s only the President,” broke in Mr. Toosypegs, with energy. “Well, President, then,” said Mr. Harkins, adopting the amendment with a look of disgust. “I’ve heern they call him ‘mister,’ jest like hany hother man.” “So they do; and he glories in the triumphant title—a title which, as an American citizen’s, is a prouder one than that of king or kaiser!” said Mr. Toosypegs, enthusiastically, while he repeated the sentence he had read out of a late novel: “―It is a title for which emperors might lay down their scepters—for which potentates might doff the royal purple—for which the great ones of the earth might—a—might’”—Mr. Toosypegs paused and knit his brows, having evidently lost his cue. “Kick the bucket!” suggested Mr. Harkins, coming to his aid. “Mr. Harkins, I’m very much obliged to you; but that wasn’t exactly the word,” said Mr. Toosypegs, politely, “―Might’—oh, yes!—‘might resign name and fame, and dwell under the shadow of the American eagle, whose glorious wings extend to the four quarters of the earth, and before whose soul-piercing eye the nations of the world must blush forevermore!’” And Mr. Toosypegs, carried away by national enthusiasm, gave his arm such a flourish that it came in contact with the head of Mr. Harkins, and set more stars dancing before his eyes than there would have been had the night been ever so fine. The outraged Mr. Harkins indignantly sprung round, and collared Mr. Toosypegs, whose complexion had turned from whity-brown to gray, with terror, and whose teeth chattered with mingled shame and fear. “You himpertanent wagabond!” shouted Mr. Harkins, “to go for to strike a hunnoffending man like that! Blessed! if I hain’t a good mind to chuck yer ’ead fust hout the waggin.” “Mr. Har—Har—Harkins,” stammered the half-strangled advocate of the American eagle, “I didn’t mean to do it, I’m very much obliged to you! I do assure you, Mr. Harkins, I hadn’t the faintest idea of hitting you; and if money—” “How much?” demanded Mr. Harkins, fiercely, looking bayonets at his trembling victim. “Mr. Harkins, if five or even ten dollars—” “Which is how many pounds?” demanded the somewhat mollified Mr. Harkins. “Two pounds sterling,” said Mr. Toosypegs, in a trembling falsetto; “and I do assure you, Mr. Harkins, I hadn’t the faintest idea of hitting you that time. If two pound—” “Done!” cried Mr. Harkins. “Never say it ag’in. I ain’t a man to bear spite at no one—which is a Christian maxim, Mr. Toosypegs. A clip side the head’s neither here nor there. Same time, I’ll take them two-pound flimsies now, if’s all the same to you?” “Certainly—certainly, Mr. Harkins,” said Mr. Toosypegs, drawing out a purse well-filled with gold, and opening it nervously. “Three—five—ten dollars, and two for the drive’s twelve; and one to buy sugar-plums for your infant family —if you’ve got such a thing about you—is thirteen. Here’s thirteen dollars, Mr. Harkins. I’m very much obliged to you.” “Same to you, Mr. Toosypegs,” said Mr. Harkins, pocketing the money, with a broad grin. “‘May you ne’er want a frien,’ nor a bottle to give him,’ as the poic says.” “Mr. Harkins, I’m obliged to you,” said Mr. Toosypegs, grasping his hand, which Mr. Harkins resigned with a grunt. “You have a soul, Mr. Harkins. I know it—I feel it. Everybody mightn’t find it out; but I can—I perceived it from the first.” Mr. Harkins heard this startling fact with the greatest indifference, merely saying, “Humph!” “And now, how far do you suppose we are from the city, Mr. Harkins!” said Mr. Toosypegs, in his most insinuating tone. “’Bout a mile or so.” “Could you recommend any hotel to me, Mr. Harkins. I’m a stranger in the city, you know, and should feel grateful if you would,” said Mr. Toosypegs, humbly. “Why, yes, I can,” said Mr. Harkins, brightening suddenly up. “There’s the ‘Blue Pig,’ one of the finest ’otels in Lunnon, with the best o’ ’commodations for man and beast. You’ve heern o’ the ‘Blue Pig’ over there in Hamerica, hain’t you?” Mr. Toosypegs wasn’t sure. It was very likely he had; but, owing to his bad memory, he had forgotten. “Well, anyhow, you won’t find many ’otels to beat that ’ere. Best o’ ’commodation—but I told you that hafore.” [Pg 9] [Pg 10] [Pg 11] “Where is it located?” asked Mr. Toosypegs. “St. Giles. You know where that is, in course—hevery-body does. The nicest ’otel in Lunnon—best o’ ’commodations. But I told you that hafore. My hold frien’ Bruisin’ Bob keeps it. You’ll like it, I know.” “Yes, Mr. Harkins, I dare say I will. I am very much obliged to you,” said Mr. Toosypegs, in a somewhat dubious tone. “That ’ere man’s the greatest cove a-goin’,” said Mr. Harkins, getting enthusiastic. “Been married ten times if he’s been married once. One wife died; one left his bread-board, and run hoff with a hofficer dragoon; one was lagged for stealin’ wipes, and he’s got three livin’ at this present writin’. Great fellar is Bob.” “I haven’t the slightest doubt of it, Mr. Harkins,” said the proprietor of the freckles, politely; “and I anticipate a great deal of pleasure in making the acquaintance of your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bob. But, good gracious! Mr. Harkins, just look there—if that ain’t a woman hurrying on there after,” said Mr. Toosypegs, pointing, in intense surprise, to the form of the gipsy, as she darted swiftly away from the cottage. “Well, what o’ that? Some tramper a-goin’ to Lunnon,” said Mr. Harkins, gruffly. “But, Mr. Harkins, a woman out in such a storm at this hour of the night! Why, it ain’t right,” said Mr. Toosypegs, getting excited. Mr. Harkins picked up his hat, turned down the collar of his coat, faced abruptly round, and looked Mr. Toosypegs straight in the eyes. “Do call to her to get in, Mr. Harkins. There’s plenty of room for her on the back seat,” said Mr. Toosypegs, unheeding Mr. Harkins’ astounded look at his philanthropy. “A woman traveling on foot in such a storm! Why, it ain’t right!” repeated Mr. Toosypegs, getting still more excited. “Mr. Toosypegs, Hamericans don’t never be a little hout their mind, do they?” said Mr. Harkins, blandly. “Not often, Mr. Harkins, I’m very much obliged to you,” said Mr. Toosypegs, with his customary politeness. “Because if they did, you know,” said Mr. Harkins, in the same bland tone, “I should say you wasn’t quite right yourself, you know!” “Good gracious! Mr. Harkins, what do you mean?” exclaimed Mr. Toosypegs, in a tone of mild remonstrance. “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” “Mr. Toosypegs, I don’t like to be personal; so I’ll only say it’s my private opinion you’re a brick!” said Mr. Harkins, mildly. “Perhaps, though, its the hair of Hingland wot doesn’t agree with you. I thought you was wery sensible a little w’ile ago, when you gin me them two poun’.” “I’m very much obliged to you for your good opinion, Mr. Harkins,” said Mr. Toosypegs, blushing. “And if you’ll only call to that woman to get into the wagon, I’ll be still more so.” “And have your pockets picked?” said Mr. Harkins, sharply. “I shan’t do no sich thing.” “Mr. Harkins!” said Mr. Toosypegs, warmly, “she’s a woman—ain’t she?” “Well, wot if she be?” said Mr. Harkins, sullenly. “Why, that no woman should be walking at this hour when men are riding; more particularly when there is a back seat with nobody in it. Why, it ain’t right!” said Mr. Toosypegs, who seemed unable to get beyond this point. “Well, I don’t care!” said Mr. Harkins, snappishly. “Do you s’pose, Mr. Toosypegs, I have nothing to do but buy waggins to kerry sich lumber as that ’ere? I won’t do it for no one. Likely as not she’s nothin’ but a gipsy, or something as bad. This ’ere waggin ain’t goin’ to be perluted with no sich trash.” “Mr. Harkins,” said Mr. Toosypegs, briskly, thrusting his hand into his pocket, “what will you take and bring her to London?” “Hey? ‘A fool and his money’—hum! What’ll you give?” “There’s a crown.” “Done!” said Mr. Harkins, closing his digits on the coin, while his little eyes snapped. “Hullo! you, woman!” he shouted, rising his voice. The gipsy—who, though but a yard or so ahead, was indistinguishable in the darkness—sped on without paying the slightest attention to his call. “Hallo, there! Hallo!” again called Mr. Harkins, while Mr. Toosypegs followed him: “Stop a moment, if you please, madam.” But neither for the sharp, surly order of the driver, nor the bland, courteous request of Mr. Toosypegs, did the woman stop. Casting a brief, fleeting glance over her shoulder, she again flitted on. “You confounded old witch! Stop and take a ride to town—will you?” yelled the polite and agreeable Mr. Harkins, holding up a dark lantern and reining in his horse by the woman’s side. The dark, stern face, with its fierce, black eyes and wildly-streaming hair, was turned, and a hard, deep voice asked [Pg 12] [Pg 13] what he wanted. “A gipsy! I knew it!” muttered Mr. Harkins, shrinking involuntarily from her lurid glances. “Ugh! What a face! Looks like the witch in the play?” Then aloud: “Get in, ma’am, and I’ll take ye to town.” “Go play your jokes on some one else,” said the woman, curtly, turning away. “I ain’t a-jokin’. Nice time o’ night this to stop and play jokes—ain’t it?” said Mr. Harkins, in a tone of intense irony. “This ’ere young man, which is a Hamerican from the New Knighted States, has paid yer fare to Lunnon outer his hown blessed pocket. So jump in, and don’t keep me waitin’ here in the wet.” “Is what he says true?” said the dark woman, turning the sharp light of her stiletto-like eyes on the freckles and pale- blue eyes of good-natured Mr. Toosypegs. “Yes, ma’am. I’m happy to say it is,” said Mr. Toosypegs. “Allow me to hand you in.” And Mr. Toosypegs got up to fulfill his offer; but Dobbin at that moment gave the wagon a malicious jerk, and dumped our patriotic American back in his seat. Before he could recover his breath, the gipsy had declined his assistance, with a wave of her hand, and had entered the wagon unassisted, and taken her seat. “I know that tramper,” said Mr. Harkins in a nervous whisper to Mr. Toosypegs. “It’s the gipsy queen, Ketura, from Yetholm; most wonderful woman that ever was, ’cept Deborah, the woman the Bible tells about, you know, wot druv the nail through the fellar’s head when she found him takin’ a snooze. Heard a minister take her for his tex’ once, and preach all about it. Our cow’s name’s Deborah, too,” said Mr. Harkins, absently. “And she’s a gipsy queen? Lord bless us!” exclaimed Mr. Toosypegs, turning round and looking in some alarm at the fixed, stern, dark face before him—like the face of a statue in bronze. “Does she tell fortunes?” “Yes; but you’d better not hask her to-night,” said Mr. Harkins, in the same cautious whisper. “Her son’s in prison, and sentenced to transportation for life for robbin’ the plate of the Hearl De Courcy. He’s goin’ off with a lot of hothers airly to-morrow mornin’. Now, don’t go exclaiming that way;” said Mr. Harkins, in a tone expressive of disgust, as he gave his companion a dig in the side. “Poor thing! poor thing!” said Mr. Toosypegs, in a tone of sympathy. “Why, it’s too bad; it really is, Mr. Harkins.” “Sarved him right, it’s my opinion,” said Mr. Harkins, sententiously. “Wot business had he for to go for to rob Hearl de Courcy, I want ter know? His mother, the hold lady ahind here, went and sot him up for a gentleman, and see wot’s come hof hit. She, a hold gipsy queen, goin’ and sendin’ her son to Heton with hall the young lordses, and baronetses, and dukeses, and makin’ believe he was somethin’ above the common. And now see what her fine gentleman’s gone and done and come to. Wonder wot she’ll think of herself, when she sees him takin’ a sea voyage for the good of his ’ealth at the ’spense of the government, to-morrow?” “Poor thing! poor thing!” said Mr. Toosypegs, looking deeply sorry. “Poor hold thing hindeed!” said Mr. Harkins, turning up his nose contemptuously. “Sarved ’im right, I say ag’in. That ’ere son o’ hern was the most stuck-hup chap I ever clapped my two blessed heyes on. Hafter he left Heton, I see’d ’im, one day, in the streets, hand guess who with? W’y, with nobody less than young Lord Williers, honly son o’ the Hearl De Courcy, as he has gone and robbed. There’s hingratitude for you! I didn’t know ’im then; but I ’cognized him hafterward in the court-room hat ’is trial.” “How could he afford to go to Eton—he, a gipsy?” said Mr. Toosypegs, in surprise. “Dunno! Hold woman sent ’im, I s’pose—’owever she got the money. He was a fine-looking fellow, too, I must say, though rayther tawny, but ’andsome as Lord Williers himself. Hold Ketura was ’andsome once, too; see’d ’er w’en she was a reg’lar hout-and-hout beauty; though you mightn’t think it now. Times changes folks, yer know,” said Mr. Harkins, in a moralizing tone. “What made him steal, if his mother was so rich?” said Mr. Toosypegs. “His mother wasn’t rich no more’n I be. S’pose she made enough tellin’ fortunes, poachin’, and stealin’ to pay fur’im at school; hand then when he growed hup, and his cash gave out, he took hand stole the hearl’s plate. He denied it hall hat ’is trial; but then they hall do that. By jingo! he looked fierce enough to knock the judge and jury, and all the rest on ’em, hinto the middle hof next week, hif not further, that day. ’Twas no go, though; hand hover the water he goes to- morrow.” “Poor fellow! Mr. Harkins, I’m sorry for him—I really am,” said Mr. Toosypegs, in a tone of real sincerity. Mr. Harkins burst into a gruff laugh. “Well, hif this ain’t good! Wot fools folks is! Sorry for a cove yer never saw! Wonder hif hall Hamericans is as green as you be?” After this sentence, which came out in a series of little jerks, with strong notes of admiration appended to each, Mr. Harkins relapsed into silence and the collar of his great-coat, and began whistling “The Devil Among the Tailors,” in a voice like a frog with the influenza. They were now rapidly approaching the city—the loud crash and din of which had somewhat subsided, owing to the inclemency of the weather and the lateness of the hour. The gipsy, who had not heard a word of the foregoing [Pg 14] [Pg 15] [Pg 16] conversation—it having been carried on in a prudently-subdued tone—had wrapped her coarse cloak closer around her, while the gaze of her devouring eyes grew more intense, as the lights of the city began to appear. One by one, they came gleaming out through the dense fog with bug-like stars here and there; and in every direction. The city was gained; and they were soon in the very midst of the great, throbbing heart of mighty London. The wagon stopped, and Mr. Toosypegs sprung out to assist the woman to alight. But waving him away with an impatient motion, she sprung out unassisted, and without one word or look of thanks, turned and flitted away in the chill night wind. “There! I knowed that would be all the thanks ye’d get,” said Mr. Harkins, with a hoarse chuckle. “Hoff she goes, and you’ll never see her again.” “Well, that don’t matter any. I didn’t want thanks, I’m sure,” said the kind-hearted Mr. Toosypegs. “Good-by, Mr. Harkins. Give my respects to Mrs. Harkins.” “Good-night, hold fellar,” said Mr. Harkins, giving Mr. Toosypegs’ hand a cordial shake. “You’re a brick! How I’d like to come hacross one like you hev’ry night! Go right to Bob’s, sign o’ the ‘Blue Pig,’ St. Giles, best o’ ’commodation for man and beast; but I told you that before. Tell Bob I sent you, and I’ll call and see you in a few days.” “You’re very good, Mr. Harkins. I’ll certainly tell Mr. Bob so when I see him!” said Mr. Toosypegs, with a severe twinge of conscience at the deception he felt himself to be using; “and I’ll be very glad to see you whenever you call. I’m very much obliged to you.” CHAPTER III. THE LOVERS. “Oh, thou shalt be all else to me, That heart can feel, or tongue can feign; I’ll praise, admire, and worship thee, But must not, dare not, love again.” —Moore. While the solitary wagon was driving, through wind and rain, along the lonely north road, bearing its three strangely- contrasted inmates—the gruff, avaricious driver, the simple, kind-hearted youth, and the dark, fierce, stern woman—a far different scene was passing in another quarter of the city. At that same hour the town mansion of Hugh Seyton—Earl De Courcy—was all ablaze with lights, music and mirth. Gorgeous drawing-rooms, fretted with gold and carving, dazzling with numberless jets of light from the pendant chandeliers, odorous with the heavy perfume of costly exotics, the very air quivering with softest music, were thrown open, and were filled with the proud, the high-born, the beautiful, of London. Peers and peeresses, gallant nobles and ladies bright, moved through the glittering rooms, and with singing, talking, flirting, dancing, the night was waning apace. Two young men stood together within the deep shadow of a bay-window, in the music-room, watching a group assembled round a young lady at the piano, and conversing in low tones. One of these was decidedly the handsomest man present that night. In stature he was tall, somewhat above the common height, and faultless in form and figure, with a certain air of distingue about him that stamped him as one of noble birth. His clear, fair complexion, his curling chestnut hair, and large blue eyes, betrayed his Saxon blood. His face might have seemed slightly effeminate; but no one, in looking at the high, kingly brow, the dark, flashing eyes, and firm-set mouth, would have thought that long. A dark mustache shaded his upper lip, and a strange, nameless beauty lit up and softened his handsome face whenever he smiled. Adored by the ladies, envied by the men, Lord Ernest Villiers, only son of Earl De Courcy, seemed to have nothing on earth left to wish for. And yet, at times, over that white, intellectual brow a dark shadow would flit; from the depths of those dark, handsome eyes the bright light of a happy heart would pass; the mouth would grow stern, and a look of troubled care would darken his young face. His companion, a good-looking young man, with a certain air about him as if he were somebody and knew it, with a listless look, and most desirable curling whiskers, leaned against a marble Hebe, and listened languidly to the singing. He wore the undress uniform of an officer, and being interpreted, was no other than Captain George Jernyngham, of the Guards. “What a wonderful affair this is of Germaine’s—eh, Villiers?” said Captain Jernyngham, carressing his mustache. “Just like a thing in a play, or a story, where everybody turns out the most unexpected things. The Duke of B—— is going crazy about it. He had invited Germaine to his house, and the fellow was making the fiercest sort of love to his pretty daughter, when all of a sudden, it turns out that he is a robber, a gipsy, a burglar, and all sorts of horrors. How the [Pg 17] [Pg 18] deuce came it to pass that he entered Eton with us, and passed himself off as a gentleman?” “I cannot tell; the whole affair is involved in mystery.” “You and he were pretty intimate—were you not, my lord?” “Yes, I took a fancy to Germaine from the first; and I don’t believe, yet, he is guilty of the crime they charge him with.” “You don’t, eh? See what it is to have faith in human nature! How are you to get over the evidence.” “It was only circumstantial.” “Granted; but it was most conclusive. There is not another man in London has the slightest doubt of his guilt but yourself.” “Poor Germaine!” said Lord Villiers, in a tone of deep feeling; “with all his brilliant talents, his high endowments, and refined nature, to come to such a sad end! To be obliged to mate with the lowest of the low, the vilest of the vile—men degraded by every species of crime, below the level of the brute! And this for life! Poor Germaine!” The young guardsman shrugged his shoulders. “If refined men will steal—oh, I forgot! you don’t believe it,” he said, as Lord Villiers made an impatient motion, “Well, I confess, I thought better things of Germaine myself. There was always something of the dare-devil in him, and he was reckless and extravagant to a fault; but upon my honor, I never thought he could have come to this. Have you seen him since his trial?” “No, I had not the heart to meet him. Death would be preferable to such a fate.” “There was a devil in his eye, if there ever was in any man’s, when he heard his sentence,” observed the young captain. “No one that saw him is likely to forget, in a hurry, the way he folded his arms and smiled in the judge’s face, as he pronounced it. By Jove! I’m not given to nervousness, but I felt a sensation akin to an ague-shiver, as I watched him.” “With his fierce, passionate nature, it will, turn him into a perfect demon,” said Lord Villiers; “and if ever he escapes, woe to those who have caused his disgrace! He is as implacable as death or doom in his hate—as relentless as a Corsican in his vengeance.” “Has he any friends or relatives among the gipsies?” “I don’t know, I think I heard of a mother, or brother, or something. I intend paying him a last visit to-night, and will deliver any message he may send to his friends.” “Will your rigorous father approve of such a visit, since it was he that prosecuted Germaine?” “Certainly, Jernyngham. My father, believing in his guilt, thought it his duty to do so; but he bears no feeling of personal anger toward him,” said Lord Villiers, gravely. “Well, I wish Germaine a safe passage across the ocean,” said Captain Jernyngham, as he listlessly admired his hand in its well-fitting glove. “He was a confoundedly good-looking fellow; cut me completely out with that pretty little prize widow of old Sir Rob Landers; but I’ll be magnanimous and forgive him now. Oh, by Jove! Villiers, there goes Lady Maude Percy!” cried the guardsman, starting suddenly up, all his listlessness disappearing as if by magic. “Ye gods! what a perfectly dazzling beauty! Ah! my lord, I thought you would find the subject more interesting than that of poor Germaine,” he added, with a mischievous smile at his companion’s look of intense admiration. Lord Villiers laughed, and his clear face flushed. “The handsomest girl in London, and the greatest heiress,” said the guardsman, resuming his half-drawl and languid caressing of his whiskers. “What an intensely enviable fellow you are, Villiers, if rumor is true.” “And what says rumor?” said Lord Villiers, coldly. “Why, that you are the accepted lover of the fair Lady Maude.” Before the somewhat haughty reply of Lord Villiers was spoken, a young lady, suddenly entering the room, caught sight of them, and coming over, she addressed the guardsman with: “George, you abominably lazy fellow, have you forgotten you are engaged for this set to Miss Ashton? Really, my lord, you and this idle brother of mine ought to be ashamed to make hermits of yourselves in this way, while so many bright eyes are watching for your coming. Lady Maude is here, and I will report you.” And, raising her finger warningly, Miss Jernyngham tripped away. “‘Fare thee well—and if forever!’” said Captain Jernyngham, in a tragic tone, as he turned away. “‘Why, forever fare thee well!’” said Lord Villiers laughing as he finished the quotation, and turned in an opposite direction. The dancing was at its height as he passed from the music-room. Standing a little apart, his eyes went wandering over the fair forms tripping through the “mazy dance,” while they rested on one form fairer than all the rest, and his handsome face brightened, and his fine eyes lit up, as a man’s alone does, when he watches the woman he loves. Standing at the head of one of the quadrilles was the object of his gaze—the peerless, high-born Lady Maude Percy. Eighteen summers had scarce passed over her young head, yet a thoughtful, almost sad, expression ever fell like a [Pg 19] [Pg 20] [Pg 21] shadow on her beautiful face. Her form was rounded, exquisite, perfect; her oval face perfectly colorless, save for the full, crimson lips, her eyes large, dark and lustrous as stars, and fringed by long, silken-blacken lashes; her shining hair fell in soft, glittering, spiral curls, like raveled silk, round her fair, moonlight face; and her pallor seemed deepened by its raven hue. Her dress was of white brocade, fringed with seed-pearls; and her snowy arms and neck gleamed through misty clouds of point-lace. Pale, oriental pearls, wreathed her midnight hair, and ran in rivers of light around her neck. Queenly, peerless, dazzling, she moved through the brilliant train of beauties, eclipsing them all, as a meteor outshines lesser stars. Drinking in the enchanting draught of her beauty to intoxication, Lord Ernest Villiers stood leaning against a marble pillar until the dance was concluded; and then moving toward her, as she stood for an instant alone, he bent over her, and whispered, in a voice that was low but full of passion: “Maude! Maude! why have you tried to avoid me all the evening? I must see you! I must speak to you in private! I must hear my destiny from your lips tonight!” At the first sound of his voice she had started quickly, and the “eloquent blood” had flooded cheek and bosom with its rosy light; but as he went on it faded away, and a sort of shiver passed through her frame as he ceased. “Come with me into the music-room—it is deserted now,” he said, drawing her arm through his. “There, apart from all those prying eyes, I can learn my fate.” Paler still grew the pale face of the lady; but, without a word, she suffered herself to be led to the shadowy and deserted room he had just left. “And now, Maude—my own love—may I claim an answer to the question I asked you last night?” he said, bending over her. “I answered you then, my lord,” she said, sadly. “Yes; you told me to go—to forget you; as if such a thing were possible. Maude, I cannot, I will take that for an answer. Tell me, do you love me?” “Oh, Ernest—oh, my dear lord! you know I do!” she cried, passionately. “Then, Maude—my beautiful one—will you not be mine—my wife?” “Oh, I cannot! I cannot! Oh, Ernest, I cannot!” she said, with a convulsive shudder. “Cannot! And why, in Heaven’s name?” “My lord, that is my secret. I can never, never be your wife. Choose some one worthier of you, and forget Maude Percy.” She tried to steady her voice, but a stifled sob finished the sentence. For all answer he gathered her in his strong arms, and her head dropped on his shoulder. “My poor little romantic Maude, what is this wonderful secret?” he said, smiling. “Tell me, and we will see if your mountain does not turn out a molehill after all. Now, why cannot you be my wife?” “You think me weak and silly, my lord,” she said, raising her head somewhat proudly, and withdrawing from his retaining arms; “but there is a reason, one sufficient to separate us forever—one that neither you nor any living mortal can ever know!” “And you refuse to tell this reason? My father and yours are eager for this match; in worldly rank we are equals; I love you passionately, with all my heart and soul, and still you refuse. Maude, you never loved me,” he said, bitterly. Her pale sweet face was bent in her hands now, and large tears fell through her fingers. “Maude, you will not be so cruel,” he said, with sudden hope. “Only say I may hope for this dear hand.” “No, no. Hope for nothing but to forget one so miserable as I am. Oh, Lord Ernest! there are so many better and worthier than I am, who will love you. I will be your friend—your sister, if I may; but I can never be your wife.” “Maude, is there guilt, is there crime connected with this secret of yours?” he demanded, stepping before her. She rose to her feet impetuously, her cheeks crimsoning, her large eyes filling and darkening with indignation, her noble brow expanded, her haughty little head erect. “And you think me capable of crime, Lord Villiers?—of guilt that needs concealment?” she said, with proud scorn. “You, Maude? No; sooner would I believe an angel from heaven guilty of crime, than you. But I thought there might be others involved. Oh, Lady Maude! must this secret, that involves the happiness of my whole life, remain hidden from me?” The bright light had died out from the beautiful eyes of Lady Maude; and her tone was very sad, as she replied: “Some day, my lord, I will tell you all; but not now. Let us part here, and let this subject never be renewed between us.” “One word, Maude—do you love me?” “I do! I do! Heaven forgive me!” [Pg 22] [Pg 23] “Now, why, ‘Heaven forgive me?’ Maude! Maude! you will drive me mad! Is it such a crime to love me then?” “In some it is,” she said, in her low, sad voice. “And why, fairest saint?” “Do not ask me, my lord. Oh, Ernest! let me go, I am tired and sick, and very, very unhappy. Dearest Ernest, leave me, and never speak of this again.” “As you will, Lady Maude,” he said, with a bow, turning haughtily away. But a light touch, that thrilled to his very heart, was laid on his arm, and the low, sweet voice of Lady Maude said: “I have offended you, my lord; pray forgive me.” “I am not offended, Lady Maude Percy; neither have I anything to forgive,” he said; but his fine face was clouded with mortification. “You have rejected me, and I presume the matter ends there.” “But you are offended, I can hear it in your voice. Oh, Lord Villiers, if you knew how unhappy I am, you would forgive me the pain I have caused you.” Her tone touched him, and taking her hand gently, he said: “It is I who should ask forgiveness, Lady Maude. Yes, I will accept the friendship you offer, until such time as I can claim a better reward. Notwithstanding all you have said, I do not despair still.” He pressed her hand to his lips and was gone. “Excuse me, your lordship,” insinuated a most aristocratic footman in his ear, at that moment, “but there is an individual downstairs who persists on seeing the earl, and and won’t take no for an answer.” “Who is it?” inquired Lord Villiers, impatiently. “A gipsy, my lord, a desperate-looking old tramper, too.” “What’s that about gipsies?” said the unceremonious little Miss Jernyngham, passing at that moment. “You must know, my lord, I fairly dote on gipsies, ever since I saw that charming young man they are going to transport.” “How I wish I were a gipsy!” said Lord Villiers, gayly, “for such a reward.” “Pray spare your pretty speeches for Lady Maude Percy, my lord,” lisped Miss Jernyngham, giving him a tap with her fan; “but about this gipsy—is it a man or woman?” “A woman, Miss, they call her the gipsy queen, Ketura.” “A gipsy queen! oh, delightful!” cried the young lady, clapping her hands; “my lord, we must have her up, by all means. I insist on having my fortune told.” “Your slave hears but to obey, Miss Jernyngham,” said Lord Villiers, with a bow. “Jonson, go and bring the old lady up.” “Yes, me lud,” said Jonson, hurrying off. “George—George! do come here!” exclaimed the young lady, as her brother passed; “I want you!” “What’s all this about?” said the guardsman, lounging up. “My dear Clara, the way you do get the steam up at a moment’s notice is perfectly astonishing. What can I do for you?” “Do you want to have your fortune told?” “If any good sibyl would predict for me a rich wife, who would pay my debts, and keep me provided with kid gloves and cigars, I wouldn’t object; but in any other case—” His speech was cut short by the sudden appearance of the footman with the gipsy queen, of whom he seemed considerably afraid. And truly not without reason; for a lioness in her lair might have looked about as safe an animal as the dark, fierce-eyed gipsy queen. Even the two young men started; and Miss Clara Jernyngham stifled a little scream behind her fan. “I wish to see Earl De Courcy,” was her abrupt demand. “And we wish our fortune told, good mother,” said Lord Villiers; “my father will attend to you presently.” “Your father!” said the woman, fixing her piercing eyes on his handsome face, “then you are Lord Villiers?” “You have guessed it. What has the future in store for me?” “Nothing good for your father’s son,” she hissed through her clenched teeth. “Give me your hand.” He extended it, with a smile, and she took it in hers, and peered into it. What a contrast they were! his, white, small, and delicate; her hand, bronzed and rough. “Well, mother, what has destiny in store for me?” “Much good or more evil. This night decides thy destiny; either thou shalt be blessed for life, or if the scale turns against thee—then woe to thee! Stand aside—the earl comes.” [Pg 24] [Pg 25] A tall, distinguished-looking man, of middle-age, approached, and looked with grave surprise on the group before him. “A word with you, lord-earl,” said the gipsy, confronting him. “Speak out, then.” “It must be in private.” “Who are you?” said the earl, surprised and curious. “I am called the gipsy queen, Ketura,” said the woman, drawing herself up. “And what do you want of me, woman?” “I tell you I must speak in private. Is your time so precious that you cannot grant ten minutes of it to me?” said the woman, with a fiercely-impatient flash of her black eyes. “This way, then,” said the earl, impressed by the woman’s commanding look and tones, as he turned and led the way across a wide, lighted hall to a richly-furnished library. Seating himself in a softly-cushioned lounging-chair, he waited for his singular visitor to begin. CHAPTER IV. THE GIPSY’S VOW. “May the grass wither from thy feet! the woods Deny thee shelter! earth, a home! the dust, A grave! the sun, his light! and heaven, her God!” —Byron. “Well, madam, I am waiting,” said the earl, after a pause, during which the wild, black eyes of the woman were fixed immovably on his face, until he began to grow uneasy under the steady glare. “Lord earl, behold at thy feet a mother who comes to plead for her son,” said the strange woman, sinking on her knees at his feet, and holding up her clasped hands. “Madam, I do not understand,” said the earl, surprised, and feeling himself obliged, as it were, to use a respectful form of address, by the woman’s commanding look. “My son is in your power! my darling, my only son! my first-born! Oh, spare him!” said the woman, still holding up her clasped hands. “Your son? Madam, I do not understand,” said the earl, knitting his brows in perplexity. “You have condemned him to transportation! And he is innocent—as innocent of the crime for which he is to suffer as the angels in heaven,” cried the woman, in passionate tones. “Madam, I assure you, I do not understand. Who is your son?” said the earl, more and more perplexed. “You know him as Germaine, but he is my son, Reginald—my only son! Oh, my lord! spare him! spare him!” wildly pleaded the gipsy queen. “Madam, rise.” “Not until you have pardoned my son.” “That I will never do! Your son has been found guilty of wilful robbery, and has been very justly condemned. I can do nothing for him,” said the earl, while his brow grew dark, and his mouth hard and stern. “My lord, he is innocent!” almost shrieked the wretched woman at his feet. “I do not believe it! He has been proven guilty,” said the earl, coldly. “It is false! as false as the black hearts of the perjurers who swore against him!” fiercely exclaimed the gipsy; “he is innocent of this crime, as innocent of it as thou art, lord earl. Oh, Earl De Courcy, as you hope for pardon from God, pardon him.” “Madam, I command you to rise.” “Never, never! while my son is in chains! Oh, my lord, you do not know, you never can dream, how I have loved that boy! I had no one else in the wide world to love; not a drop of kindred blood ran in any human heart but his; and I loved, I adored, I worshiped him! Oh, Earl De Courcy, I have suffered cold, and hunger, and thirst, and hardship, that he might never want; I have toiled for him night and day, that he might never feel pain; I have stooped to actions I loathed, that he might be happy and free from guilt. And, when he grew older, I gave him up, though it was like rending soul and body apart. I sent him away; I I sent him to school with the money that years and years of unceasing toil had [Pg 26] [Pg 27] enabled me to save. I sent him to be educated with gentlemen. I never came near him, lest any one should suspect his mother was a gipsy. Yes; I gave him up, though it was like tearing my very heart-strings apart, content in knowing he was happy, and in seeing him at a distance at long intervals. For twenty-three years, my life has been one long dream of him; sleeping or waking, in suffering and trial, the thought that he was near me gave me joy and strength. And now he is condemned for life—condemned to a far-off land, among convicts and felons, where I will never see him again! Oh, Lord De Courcy! mercy, mercy for my son!” With the wild cry of a mother’s agony, she shrieked out that frenzied appeal for mercy, and groveled prone to the floor at his feet. A spasm of pain passed over the face of the earl, but he answered, sternly: “Woman, your son is guilty. I cannot pardon him!” “He is not guilty! Perish the soul so base as to believe such a falsehood of my high-hearted boy!” cried the gipsy, dashing fiercely back her wildly-streaming black hair. “He my proud, glorious, kindly-hearted Reginald, stoop to such a crime! Oh, sooner could the angels themselves be guilty of it than he!” “Woman, you rave! Once again I tell you, rise! “Pardon, pardon for my son!” “Madam, I cannot. I pity you. Heaven knows I do! but he is guilty, and must suffer.” “Oh, my God! how shall I convince him?” cried the wretched woman, wringing her hands in wildest despair. “Oh, Earl De Courcy! you, too, have a son, handsome, gallant and noble, the pride of your old age, the last scion of your proud race! For his sake, for the sake of your son, pardon mine!” “Once more I tell you, I cannot. Your son is condemned; to-morrow his sentence will be executed, and I have no power to avert it. And, madam, though I pity you deeply, I must again say he deserves it. Nay—hear me out. I know you do not believe it; you think him innocent, and, being his mother, it is natural you should think so; but, believe me, he is none the less guilty. Your son deserves his fate, all the more so for his ingratitude to you, after all you have done for him. I deeply pity you, as Heaven hears me, I do!” “Oh, then, for my sake, if there is one spark of pity for me in your heart, do not kill me! For, Lord De Courcy, it will be a double murder, his death and mine, if this sentence is executed.” “The law must take its course; I cannot prevent it. And once more, madam, I beseech you to rise. You should kneel to God alone.” “God would forgive him, had I pleaded to Him thus; but you, tiger-heart, you will not!” shrieked the woman, throwing up her arms in the impotence of her despair. “Oh, lord earl, I have never knelt to God or man before; and to have my petition spurned now! You hold my life in the hollow of your hand, and you will not grant it!” “I tell you I cannot.” “You can—you can! It is in your power? You are great, and rich, and powerful, and can have his sentence annulled. By your soul’s salvation, by your hopes of heaven, by your mother’s grave, by Him whom you worship, I conjure you to save my son!” The haggard face was convulsed; the brow was dark, and corrugated with agony; the lips white and quivering; the eyes wild, lurid, blazing with anguish and despair; her clenched hands upr...