“——Then more fierceThe conflict grew: the din of arms; the yellOf savage rage; the shriek of agony;The groans of death, commingled with one soundOf undistinguished horrors.”—Southey.
Silent, motionless, speechless, with surprise and many contending emotions, Ray stood gazing on his new-found father, like one suddenly stricken dumb. And with one hand resting on the young man’s shoulders, the outlaw stood before him, looking in his pale, wild, excited face, with a strange, sad smile.
“My father!” repeated Ray, like one in a dream.
“Yes, even so; you have little cause, I fear, to be proud of the relationship. In the branded outlaw, smuggler, and pirate, Captain Reginald, you behold him who was once known as the Count Germaine, the husband of the beautiful, high-born Lady Maude Percy, and your father. Strange, strange, that we should meet thus.”
For some moments Ray paced up and down the floor rapidly and excitedly, with a face from which every trace of color had fled. His father stood watching him, one arm leaning on a sort of mantel, with a look half proud, half sad, half bitter, commingled on his still fine face.
“I see you are not disposed to acknowledge the relationship between us, sir,” he said, almost haughtily. “Well, I own you are not to blame for that. Let us part as we met first, as strangers; you go your way and I will continuemine! The world need never know that you are aught to the outlawed rover-chief. You are free, sir; free to go, and to take Miss Lawless with you, if you choose. I did wish to see my poor old mother before I left, but, perhaps, it is better as it is. I will leave this part of the world altogether, and return no more; the son of Maude Percy, the one love of my crime-darkened life, will never be compromised by me.”
There was something unspeakably sad in the proud, cold way this was said, compared with the deep melancholy, the bitter remorse in his dark eyes. There were tears that did honor to his manly heart in Ray’s eyes, as he came over and held out his hand.
“My father, you wrong me,” he said, earnestly; “it was from no such unworthy feeling I hesitated to reply. These revelations came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that for the time being I was stunned, and unable to comprehend all clearly. Outlaw or not, you are my father still; and as such, we will leave the world and its scorn together. If your crimes have been great, so have your wrongs; and let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
The hands of father and son met in a strong, earnest clasp; but the outlaw’s face was averted, and his strong chest rose and fell like the waves of a tempest-tossed sea.
At this moment the curtain was pushed aside, and the Frenchwoman Marguerite, stood before them.
“Well, Marguerite?” said the outlaw, looking up.
“Did you expect any of the men to return to-night?” she asked, looking with the same glance of sharp suspicion from one to the other.
“No. Why?”
“Some of them are without; they have given the signal.”
“Oh, well, tell Bart to await them. I did not expect them, but something may have brought them back. Admit them at once.”
The woman turned and left the room, and the outlaw, looking at Ray, said, with a sad smile:
“Poor Marguerite! she has been faithful through all, clinging to me with a love of which I am utterly unworthy. Poor Marguerite! she was deserving of a better fate.”
“I suppose she has now quite recovered from the loss of her child,” said Ray.
“Never! she has never been the same since. Dear Rita! sweet little angel! Oh! Raymond, I loved that child as—”
The sentence was interrupted in a blood-chilling manner enough.
From the distant entrance of the cave came a wild shout of alarm, then an exulting cheer, lost in the sharp report of firearms and the trampling of many feet.
“Ha! what means this?” exclaimed the outlaw, as he dashed the curtain aside, and, closely followed by Ray, stood in the outer apartment.
The men were already on their feet, gazing in alarm in each other’s faces, and involuntarily grasping their weapons. In the midst of them stood Pet and the Frenchwoman, listening in surprise and vague alarm.
Still the noise continued. Shouts, cheers, the trampling of feet, and the report of firearms, all commingling together. At the same instant Black Bart and two others rushed in, all covered with blood, and shouting:
“Betrayed! betrayed! that devil’s whelp, Rozzel Garnet, has betrayed us, and the revenue officers are upon us red hot. Here they come with that cursed white-livered dog among them,” yelled Black Bart, as he rushed in.
“Come with me, this is no place for us,” said the woman Marguerite, as she seized Pet by the arm, and dragged her into the inner apartment.
In rushed the officers of the law, some twenty in all, three times the number of the smugglers; and their leader, in a loud, authoritative voice, commanded them to lay down their arms and surrender in the name of the law.
“Go to the devil!” was Black Bart’s civil reply, as he took deliberate aim, and sent a bullet whistling through the heart of the unfortunate man.
A shout of rage arose from the officers at the fall of their leader, and they rushed precipitately upon the outlaws. But their welcome was a warm one; for the pirates, well-knowing what would be their fate if captured alive, fought like demons, and soon the uproar in the vaults grew fearful.
“On, my brave fellows, on!” shouted Captain Reginald; “death here, if we must die, sooner than on the gallows.Ha! there goes Rozzel Garnet, the cursed infernal villain. He at least shall not escape.”
He raised his pistol, a sharp report followed, and a shriek of mortal agony; Rozzel Garnet bounded up in the air, and then fell heavily, shot through the brain.
The conflict now waxed fast and furious; but desperate as the smugglers were, they could not long hold out against three times their number, men better armed and prepared than themselves. The revenue officers closed on them; and in an incredibly short space of time three of the smugglers were securely bound, while three more lay stark and dead on the bloodstained, slippery floor of the cave.
Three times during the conflict had the arm of Ray Germaine interposed to save his father’s life, as he fought with the desperation of madness. But his single arm was unavailing to turn the fortune of war, and he saw his men falling helpless on every side of him. Still, he fought on with such desperate fierceness, that the revenue officers at last closed on him and bore him bleeding and wounded to the ground.
The conflict was ended, the revenue officers were victorious; but the victory was dearly bought, for more than half their number lay wounded or dead on the floor. They paused now, drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration off their heated and inflamed faces.
Wounded and bleeding, the outlaw-chief lay on the ground. Half delirious with conflicting feelings, Ray knelt beside him, and strove to staunch the flowing blood.
“It is useless,” he said, with a faint smile; “I have received my death-wound. Call Marguerite; I would see her before I die, and tell my mother, my poor mother—would to God I could see her, too, once more,” he said, while a look of bitter sorrow and remorse passed over his pale face.
“You shall not die here!” exclaimed Ray, impetuously, starting up; “and you shall see her, in spite of them all. Mr. Chesny,” he added, turning to the present leader of the revenue officers, “will you permit some of your men to bear Captain Reginald up to Old Barrens Cottage immediately?”
The gentleman addressed, who knew Ray intimately, turned round in surprise. In the heat of the conflict he hadnot perceived him, and now he looked his astonishment at the unexpectedrencontre.
“You here, Mr. Germaine!” he exclaimed. “Why, how comes this?”
“I was brought here a prisoner—never mind that,” said Ray, impatiently; “will you permit me to have this wounded man removed?”
“Impossible, my dear fellow. He is the notorious leader of this villainous gang—an outlaw with a price on his head. I am responsible for his safe delivery into the hands of justice.”
“And those hands he will never reach! Do you not see he is dying?” said Ray, passionately. “Look at him, Chesny, do you think you could bring him to Judestown in that state? Do you think he would ever reach it alive?”
“Mr. Germaine, I should like to oblige you—”
“Do it, then. Let me take him to the cottage, and I will be responsible for his not escaping. Nonsense, Chesny! You see it is impossible for him to be taken further. You must have him taken there. Sure some of you may guard the house if you fear his escaping.”
“Be it so, then. Come, boys, construct something to carry this wounded man to Old Barrens Cottage on. Hallo! Miss Lawless, by all that’s glorious!” exclaimed the officers as Pet, with Marguerite, appeared from the inner room.
“How do you do, Mr. Chesny? Oh, what a dreadful night this has been!” said Pet, with a shudder. “Good Heavens! is Captain Reginald dead?” she exclaimed, in consternation.
“No; wounded only; he is to be conveyed to Old Barrens Cottage. How in the world did you get here, Miss Pet?”
“Oh, they carried me off. Rozzel Garnet did.”
“Well, you are the last he will carry off, I fancy. Here he lies!” said the man, touching the stark, ghastly form slightly with his foot.
“Dead!” said Pet, turning pale.
“Yes; the smuggler-chief there sent a bullet through him the first thing; and served him right, too, for peaching as he did, the mean cuss! Hurry up, boys! Oh! you’ve got through, I see. Lift him on it, now—gently, gently, there; you have stopped the blood, I see, Germaine; that’s right.Ha! whom have we here?” he exclaimed, as his eyes fell on the woman Marguerite, who, white and cold as he by whose side she knelt, held the head of the wounded chief on her breast, and gently wiped the cold sweat off his face. “Who is the woman?”
“His wife,” said Ray, in a low tone. “Let her accompany him. Miss Lawless, will you accept my escort from this den of horrors?”
“Oh, Ray! what a night this has been! And oh, I am so sorry Captain Reginald is wounded. Do you know, I liked him real well!”
Ray made no reply. In silence he drew Pet’s arm through his, and she looking at him was almost startled to see, his face so stern, so set, so fearfully white.
The men bearing the wounded form of Captain Reginald had already started from the cave. Marguerite, who had uttered but one passionate exclamation, followed, still and silent, and then came Ray and Pet, with a few of the revenue officers bringing up the rear. The melancholy procession passed from the gloomy cave, now indeed a cave of horrors, with its bloody and unburied dead; and Pet drew a long, deep breath of intense relief and thankfulness as she stood once more in the open air.
“Let me run on first and tell Erminie,” said Pet. “It may startle her if she is not forewarned; and then, if you like, I will ride to Judestown for the doctor. There can be no danger now.”
Ray, who would not leave his father, consented; and Pet darted off over the slippery shingle and up the rocks like a young mountain deer. The men proceeded slowly with their burden, who lay with his white face upturned in the sad, solemn starlight; and who may tell the bitter, bitter, remorseful thoughts of the dark, sorrowful past, swelling in his proud heart there. Ray and Marguerite, one on each side, were mute, too. He, with his eyes alternately fixed on the ground, and on the wounded man’s face, trying to realize the astounding revelations of the night; she looking straight before her into the darkness, with her customary look of fierce, sullen despair, looking what she was—a wretched, broken-hearted woman.
There were lights and a subdued bustle in the cottagewhen they reached it. Erminie, white and trembling, met them at the door. Pet had told her all so breathlessly, and then had mounted Ray’s horse and darted off for Judestown so quickly, that Erminie even yet only half comprehended what had taken place.
There was no time now for explanation, however. The wounded man was laid on the large, soft lounge in the parlor; and then Chesny, leaving one of his men as guard, more for form’s sake than anything else, took his departure.
“Where is my grandmother, Erminie?” asked Ray, whose white, stern face, had terrified her from the first.
“In bed.”
“Then go up and waken her.”
“Waken her at this hour! Why, Ray!”
“Yes; you must, I tell you. Go at once.”
Ray’s fiercely-impatient manner and strange excitement terrified Erminie more and more; but still she ventured to lift up her voice in feeble expostulation.
“What good will it do to arouse her? She can be of no service here.”
“Erminie, I tell you, you must!” passionately exclaimed Ray; “else I will go myself. Of no service here! Yonder dying man is her son—her long-lost son—supposed to have been drowned. Will you go, now?”
One moment’s astounded pause, and then Erminie flew up-stairs, and entered the aged gipsy’s room.
She was lying asleep, but she never slept soundly, and she opened her eyes and looked up as Erminie entered.
“Well, what is the matter?” she said, curtly.
“Oh, grandmother! you must get up!” cried Erminie, in strong agitation. “There is a man down-stairs wishes to see you.”
“A man wishing to see me? What do you mean?” asked the gipsy, knitting her dark brows.
“Oh, grandmother! there is news of—of—your son.”
“My son! are you going mad, girl?” cried Ketura, getting up on her elbows unassisted, for the first time in years; and glaring upon her with her hollow, lurid eyes.
“Oh, grandmother! grandmother! we were deceived—you were deceived—Ray says he was not drowned.”
“Not drowned!” She passed her hand over her face with a bewildered look.
“No; it was a false report. He lives!”
With a sharp, wild cry—a strange, eerie cry, breaking the dead silence of the night, the woman Ketura strove to rise. The effort was a failure. She fell back, while every feature was distorted with wildest agony.
“Girl! girl! what have you said?” she cried out. “Did you say my son—my Reginald—lives?”
“He does! he lives! He is here to see you once more before he dies,” said Ray, entering abruptly. “Hasten, Erminie! there is no time to lose.”
He quitted the room as abruptly as he had entered it, and Erminie approached the bed to assist Ketura to dress. The gipsy lay like one stunned, her wild, hollow eyes rolling vacantly, her hands so tightly clenched that the nails sunk into the skin. It was evident she could not yet fully realize or comprehend what she had heard; the words had stunned her, numbing all sense and feeling.
Erminie lost no time in talking. Swiftly she proceeded to array the gipsy in a large, wadded gown, something like a gentleman’srobe de chambre, of dark, soft woolen stuff. Ketura quietly submitted, breathing hard and fast, and glaring with her wild, unearthly eyes round the room, trying still to realize what she had heard—that her son still lived. This done, Erminie ran down-stairs and apprised Ray.
“Now, how is she to be taken down-stairs?” she asked. “Remember, she has not left her room for years.”
Ray was walking rapidly up and down the room, but paused when the low, sweet voice of Erminie fell on his ear. The Frenchwoman, Marguerite, who was kneeling beside her husband, gazing fixedly upon him, looked up for an instant, and then resumed her unwavering gaze as before.
“I will place her in her chair and carry her down,” said Ray, as he took the staircase almost at a bound.
There was little difficulty in doing this; for the gaunt, powerful frame of the once majestic gipsy queen, wasted and worn by illness and old age, was light and easily lifted, now. Ray took her in his strong arms and placed her gently in her large elbow-chair, and then proceeded to convey her below.
She laid her hand on his arm, and looked up in his face with a piteous look.
“Oh, Ray! what have you told me? Is Reginald living still?”
It was so strange and so sad to hear her—that haughty, fierce, passionate woman—speak in a tone like that, quick tears rushed to the gentle eyes of Erminie.
“Yes, he is living—he is down-stairs; but he has only come here to die!” answered Ray, hurriedly.
“Oh, Reginald! Reginald! Oh, my son! thank God for this!” she passionately cried out.
For many and many a year that sacred name had never crossed her lips. It sent a thrill, now, through the heart of Ray, as he bore her into the room where the wounded man lay.
Who shall describe that meeting? Long, long years of darkest crime and wildest woe had intervened since that lowering, lamentable day on which they had parted last. Years full of change, and sorrow, and sin, and remorse—years that had changed the powerful, passionate, majestic gipsy queen into the helpless, powerless paralytic she was now—years that had changed the handsome, high-spirited, gallant youth into the bronzed, hardened, guilty man lying there dying—passing slowly out into the dread unknown. Yet, despite time, and change, and years, they knew each other at the first glance.
“Mother,” said the smuggler, with a faint, strange smile.
“Oh, my son! my son! Oh, my Reginald! my only son!” was her passionate cry. “Has the great sea given up its dead, that I see you again?”
“You with all the world were deceived, mother. When I am gone, you will learn all. Mother, I have only come here to die.”
Her feeble arms were clasped around him; she did not seem to heed his words, as her devouring eyes were riveted on his face. He lay breathing quickly and laboriously, his face full of bitter sadness as he saw the wreck of what had once been his mother. The woman Marguerite had drawn back, and stood gazing on Ketura with a sort of still amaze. Ray was leaning against the mantel, his elbow resting on it, and his face shaded by his dark, falling hair; and Erminie,crouched on a low seat, white and trembling, sat watching all. So they remained for a long time, the dull, heavy ticking of the clock and a death watch on the wall alone breaking the dreamy silence. It was an eerie scene and an eerie hour, and a feeling of strange awe made Erminie hold her very breath, wondering how this strange, unnatural silence was to end.
The quick, sharp gallop of horses’ feet broke it, at last; and the next instant, Pet, flushed and excited, burst in, followed by the doctor and by Ranty. All paused in the door-way, and stood regarding with silent wonder, the scene before them.
Ray lifted his head, and going over, touched Ketura on the arm, saying, in a low voice:
“Leave him for a moment; here is the doctor come to examine his wounds.”
Her weak arms were easily unclasped, and she permitted herself to be borne away. Of all the strange things that had occurred that night none seemed stranger to Ray than this sudden and wonderful quietude that had come over his fierce, passionate grandmother.
The doctor approached his patient to examine his wounds, and Pet, going over, began conversing in a low tone with Erminie, telling her how she had encountered Ranty. Ray stood watching the doctor, with interest and anxiety; and as, after a prolonged examination, he arose, he approached him and said, hurriedly:
“Well, doctor?”
The doctor shook his head.
“He may linger two, three days, perhaps, but certainly not longer. Nothing can save him.”
Ray’s very breath seemed to stop as he listened, till it became painful for those around to listen for its return. The wounded man himself looked up and beckoned Ray to approach.
“I knew I was done for,” he said, with a feeble smile. “I was surgeon enough to know it was a mortal wound. How long does he say I may live?”
“Two or three days,” said Ray, in a choking voice.
“So long?” said the smuggler, a dark shade passing over his face. “I did not think to cumber the earth such alength of time. How does she bear it?” pointing to his mother.
“She has not heard it yet; she seems to have fallen into a kind of unnatural apathy. The shock has been too much for her.”
“Poor mother!” he said, in that same tone of bitter remorse Ray had heard him use before; “her worst crime was loving me too well. Bring her here; I have something to say to her which may as well be said now.”
Ray carried over the almost motionless form of the aged gipsy. The stricken lioness was a pitiable sight in her aged helplessness.
“Mother,” said the smuggler, taking the withered, blackened hand in his, and looking sadly in the vacant face, that seemed striving to comprehend what had stunned her and bewildered her so strangely.
His voice recalled her again, and she turned her hollow eyes upon him. Awful eyes they were—like red-hot coals in a bleached skull.
“Mother, listen to me. I have but a short time to live, and I cannot die till I learn if you have kept your vow of vengeance, made long ago against Lord De Courcy.”
“I have! I have!” she exclaimed, rousing to something like her old fierceness. “Oh, Reginald! you have been avenged. I have wrung drops of blood from their hearts, even as they wrung them from mine. Yes, yes! I have avenged you! They, too, know what it is to lose a child!”
“Mother! mother! what have you done?”
“I stole their child! their infant daughter the heiress of all the De Courcys, the last of her line! Yes, I stole her!” She fairly shrieked now, with blazing eyes. “I vowed to bring her up in sin and pollution, and I would have done so, too, if I had not been stricken with a living death. Oh, Reginald! your mother avenged you! A child for a child! They banished you, and I stole their heir!”
“Oh, mother! mother! what is this you have done—where is that child now?”
“Yonder!” cried the gipsy, with a sort of fierce, passionate cry, pointing one shaking finger toward the terrified Erminie; “there she stands; Erminie Seyton, the heiress of the Earl and Countess De Courcy. The daughter of an earlhas toiled like a menial for your mother, Reginald, all her life. There she stands the lost daughter and heiress of Lord De Courcy!”
An awful silence fell for a moment on all, broken first by the impetuous Ranty Lawless.
“Lord and Lady De Courcy! why, they are here in America—in Baltimore, now. Good heavens! can our Erminie be anything to them? Oh, I knew she was; I saw the likeness the very first moment we met.”
“Who says Lord and Lady De Courcy are here?” cried the smuggler, half-rising himself in his excitement.
“I do!” said Ranty, stepping forward; “they came out in our ship, and I was with them as far as Washington city. Last night, I learned that they had arrived at Baltimore, where a friend of Lady De Courcy’s, an Englishman, is residing.”
All he had heard, all that had passed before, nothing had affected him like that. His chest rose and fell with his long, hard, labored breathing and his face, white before, was livid now as that of the dead.
“So near! so near! Can it be that I will see her once more? And her child here, too, where is she? I must see her!”
Ray, who had listened like one transfixed to his grandmother’s revelations, made a motion to Erminie to approach. Unable to comprehend or realize what she heard, she came over and sunk down on her knees beside him.
He took her hand in his, and pushed back the pale golden hair off her brow, and gazed long and earnestly in her pale but wondrous lovely young face.
“Her father’s eyes and hair, and features; her mother’s form and expression; the noble brow and regal bearing of her father’s race spiritualized and softened. Yes, a true De Courcy, and yet like her mother, too. Ray come here.”
He went over and took his place by Erminie.
“Do you know she is your sister, your mother’s child?” asked the wounded man.
“I know it now; I did not before,” was the awe-struck answer.
“You have heard she is in Baltimore?”
“I have.”
“Then go there, immediately; ride as you never before in your life, and tell them all. Bring her here; I would see her again before I die.”
Ray started to his feet.
“Tell her who you are, yourself—her son; it will be better so. When they learn their long-lost daughter is here they will need no incentive to have them haste. One act of justice must be rendered before I die.”
“Let me accompany you,” said Ranty, as Ray started from the house. “I know exactly where to find them. Saints and angels! where will the revelations of this night end?”
There was no reply from Ray; he could make none; his brains were whirling as if mad. He sprung on his horse; Ranty followed, and in another instant they were flying on like the wind toward Judestown.
“——With wild surpriseAs if to marble struck, devoid of sense,A moment motionless she stood.”—Thomson.
In an elegantly-furnished room, in a most elegant private mansion, a lady, still young and exceedingly beautiful, sat with her head leaning on her hand, her eyes fixed thoughtfully and somewhat sadly on the floor. A little paler the noble brow, and a little graver and sweeter the lovely face, and a little more passive and less proud the soft, dark eyes; but in all else Maude, Countess De Courcy, was unchanged. The rich, black hair, still fell in fleecy, silken ringlets round the sweet, moonlit face; the tender smile was as bright and beautiful, and the graceful form as superb and faultless as ever. There was a dreamy, far-off look in her dark, beautiful eyes, as she watched the setting sun—a look that seemed to say her thoughts were wandering in the far-off regions of the shadowy past.
The lady was not alone. Half-buried in the downy depths of a velvet-cushioned lounge reclined a proud, haughty, somewhat supercilious-looking young lady, most magnificently dressed. She was handsome, too—very handsome—despite her tossy, consequential air; but Lady Rita, only daughter and heiress of Lord De Courcy, might be pardoned for feeling herself somebody above the common. Her form was slight and girlish, but perfect in all its proportions, and displayed to the best advantage by her elegant robe; her complexion was dark as a Spaniard’s, but the large, black eyes and shining black hair, of purplish luster, were magnificent. Diamond pendants flashed and glittered in her small ears, glaring through the shadowy masses of rich, jetty hair, whenever she moved, like sparks of fire. In one hand she held a richly-inlaid fan, and with the other she languidly patted a beautiful little Blenheim spaniel that crouched at her feet and watched her with his soft, tender, brown eyes.
“Mamma,” said the young lady, looking up after a pause.
The countess gave a slight start, like one suddenly awakened from a reverie, drew a deep breath, and turned round.
“Well, my dear,” she said.
“What was that papa and Mr. Leicester were saying this morning about smugglers, or outlaws, or some other sort of horrors that were near here?”
“Oh, Mr. Leicester was only telling your papa that there were some of these people hidden down in a country town, but a considerable distance from this. It seems they forcibly abducted a young lady not long since; quite a celebrated beauty, too, and most respectable.”
“Dear me! what a dreadful place this must be, where such things are permitted,” said the young lady, shrugging her shoulders; “you don’t think there is any danger of their attacking us, mamma?”
“No, I think not,” said Lady Maude, smiling; “you need not alarm yourself, my dear; those desperate people are a long way off, and are probably arrested before this. You need not alarm yourself in the least.”
There was a tap at the door at this moment, and the next a servant entered to announce:
“Gentlemen down-stairs wishing to see Lady De Courcy.”
“Did they send up their names?” said the lady.
“No, my lady. One of them said he wanted to see youon most important business, but he did not send his name.”
“On important business? Who can it be?” said Lady Maude, somewhat surprised. “Very well, I will be down directly.”
Ten minutes after the drawing-room door opened, two gentlemen, both young, arose and returned her bow.
But why, after the first glance, does every trace of color fly from the face of Lady De Courcy? Why do her eyes dilate and dilate as they rest on the dark, handsome face of one of her visitors? Why does she reel as if struck a blow, and grasp a chair near for support. And why, standing there, and holding it tightly, does her eyes still remain riveted to his face, while her breath comes quick and hard?
Reader, she sees standing before her the living embodiment of her early girlhood—he whom she thinks buried far under the wild sea!
“Lady De Courcy, I believe?” said the young gentleman, his own face somewhat agitated.
His voice, too!
Lady Maude, feeling as though she should faint, sunk into a chair, and forced herself to say:
“Yes, sir. And yours—”
She paused.
“Is Raymond Germaine.”
Germaine, too—hisname! What feeling was it that set her heart beating so wildly as she gazed on that dark, handsome face, and manly form.
He seemed moved, too, but in a less degree than the lady.
There was no time to lose, and he began, hurriedly:
“Madam, excuse my seeming presumption, but may I beg to ask: Were you not married before—before you became the wife of the present Earl De Courcy?”
The room seemed swimming around her. Had the sea given up its dead, that Reginald Germaine should thus stand before her? From her white, trembling lips, there dropped an almost inaudible.
“Yes!”
“And you had a child—a son—by that marriage?” went on Ray, who felt circumlocution, under the present circumstances, would be useless.
Another trembling “Yes!” from the pallid lips.
“You were told he died?”
She bent her head, silent and speechless.
“Madam—Lady De Courcy—they deceived you. That child did not die!”
White and tottering, she arose and stood on her feet.
“He did not die. Reginald Germaine told you so for his own ends. That child lived!”
Her lips parted, but no sound came forth; her eyes, wild now, were riveted to the face of the speaker.
“The child lived, grew up, was brought to America, and lives still.”
“Oh, saints in heaven! What do I hear? My son—my child lives still! Heaven of heavens! You wear the face and form of Reginald Germaine—can it be that you—”
“Even so, madam, Countess De Courcy, I am his son and yours!”
Was it his bold, open face, or her mother’s heart, that told Lady Maude he spoke the truth? With a mighty cry, she held out her arms, and the next moment he was clasped in a wild embrace.
The other young gentleman seemed suddenly to have found some very absorbing prospect out of the window that completely enchained his attention, and rendered the frequent use of his handkerchief necessary. He did not turn round for nearly fifteen minutes, and then the new-found mother and son were sitting together on the sofa, with their hands clasped, talking in a low tone, while her eyes never wandered from his face.
He was telling her the story of his father, of his escape, of his subsequent life, of their meeting, and of his confession and dying request.
Lady Maude’s face, as she listened, grew so white and fixed and rigid that you might have thought it marble, save for the horror unspeakable, the terrible look burning in the great, black eyes. No word fell from her lips; her very heart seemed congealing, petrifying; she sat like one transformed to stone.
“And now, my dearest mother,” said Ray, “I have another revelation to make to you—one that, I hope, will in some measure atone for the necessary pain the one I have just been making has caused you.”
She did not speak; she sat as cold and white as marble.
“You had another child—a daughter?” he began, hesitatingly.
“I had; she is lost!” said Lady Maude, in a tone so altered that even Ranty started.
“Did she die?” Ray asked, curiously.
“I do not know; she was stolen, I think.”
“Yes; she was stolen. My grandmother, Ketura, whom I have told you of—she stole her, and brought her here at the same time she brought me.”
There was a sort of gasp, and Lady Maude half-started to her feet.
“Oh, my God! Tell me—tell me—is she—is she—”
“She is alive and well, and knows all.”
“Thank God—oh, thank God for this!” she cried, as she sunk down and hid her face in her hands.
There was a long silence. Then Lady Maude, starting to her feet, cried out, passionately:
“Where is she?—where is she? Take me to her! My precious Erminie! my long-lost darling! Oh, Raymond, take me to Erminie!”
“Will you go now? Ought not Lord De Courcy—” began Ray, hesitatingly, when she interrupted him with:
“Oh, yes, yes! He must hear all, and come with us, too. Excuse me one moment. I think he must have come.”
She passed from the room, but oh, with a face so different from that she wore when entering! Then she had fancied herself childless, and now two had been given her, as if from the dead. And Reginald Germaine, too—he whom she thought lost at sea—was living yet, and she was to see him once more. She trembled so, as she thought of him, that she almost sunk down as she walked.
The two in the parlor saw a tall, distinguished-looking man pass in through the front-door, and the next moment a quick, decided footstep in the hall, and then a clear, pleasant voice, saying:
“Got back, you see, Maude. Why, what’s the matter?”
Her reply was too low to be heard, but both passed upstairs together.
“Lord De Courcy,” said Ranty, listening.
“I thought you said her ladyship knew you?” said Ray. “She did not seem to do so while here.”
“All your fault,” said Ranty. “You didn’t give her time to bless herself before you opened your broadside of knock-down facts; and after hearing all the astounding and unexpected things you had to tell her, of course it couldn’t be expected she could think of a common, every-day mortal like me. Heigho! And so Erminie is a great lady now? I suppose I ought to be glad, Ray, but, if you’ll believe it, upon my word and honor, I’m not. Of course, she’ll have hundreds of suitors, now; and even if she loved me—which I don’t suppose she did—that high and mighty seignior, her father, wouldn’t let her have anything to do with a poor sailor. Ray, I tell you what, ever since I heard it I have been wishing, in the most diabolical manner, that it might turn out to be a false report. It may not sound friendly nor Christian-like to wish it, Ray, but I do wish it—I wish she had not a red cent in the world. I might have had some chance, then.”
Ray, looking earnestly and thoughtfully at the flowers in the carpet, heard scarcely a word of this address. Ranty watched him for a short time, as if waiting for an answer; and then leaning back in his chair, began whistling softly, as if keeping up an accompaniment to his thoughts.
The moments passed on. Half an hour elapsed, then an hour—an age it seemed to the impatient Ray. In his restlessness, he paced rapidly up and down, with knit brows, casting quick, restless glances at the door.
It opened at last, and Lady Maude, dressed as if for a journey, entered, leaning on her husband’s arm. Both were very pale; and Lady Maude’s eyes looked as if she had been weeping. But she was more composed and natural-looking than when she had left the room.
Ray stopped in his walk, and met the eyes of Lord De Courcy.
“Mr. Germaine,” he said, holding out his hand, “for your mother’s sake, you must look upon me as a father!”
Ray bent over the hand he extended with a look of deep gratitude, such as no words could express.
“Lady Maude has told me all,” continued his lordship.“And at the request of the unhappy man whom you say is dying, we will start with you immediately.”
As Ray bowed, Ranty arose, and the earl caught sight of him.
“Mr. Lawless,” he exclaimed, in pleased surprise; “I did not expect to meet you here. My dear, you remember the gallant preserver of Rita’s life?”
Ranty actually blushed at the epithet, coming as it did from the father of Erminie.
“Would you wish to see Lady Rita? She is up-stairs.”
“Thank you, my lord. Some other time I will have that pleasure,” answered Ranty. “At present, we have no time to spare; every minute is precious.”
Without further parley, the whole party left the house. A carriage and fast horses were in waiting; and a few moments after they were on their way.
During the journey, there was a chance to explain everything more fully than had yet been done, and Ray entered willingly into all particulars.
Lord and Lady De Courcy seemed never tired of asking questions concerning Erminie; and Ray expatiated on her goodness and beauty in a way to satisfy even the most exacting.
“Being so beautiful, of course she might have had many suitors?” said Lady Maude, somewhat anxiously.
“She might have had, my dear mother.” She seemed so strongly attached to him already that it became quite natural to Ray to call her mother. “But she would listen to none of them.”
“Thank Heaven for that!” said Lady Maude, drawing a deep breath of relief. “Then her affections are still her own?”
“On that point I am not informed. Perhaps,” said Ray, glancing at Ranty with a wicked look in his dark eyes, “Mr. Lawless can throw a little light on the subject. He and Erminie are very confidential friends!”
Poor Ranty reddened to the very roots of his hair under the imputation, and the look that Lord and Lady De Courcy gave him.
“Never mind, my dear boy,” said Lord De Courcy, kindly, as he saw his confusion. “Erminie herself shall tell us all about it when we see her.”
The journey was a very sad and silent one, despite all.The thought of him who lay dying checked their joy at the approaching reunion; and the fear that he might be dead hung like a pall over the heart of Ray.
On arriving at Judestown, they procured a conveyance from Mr. Gudge, and started at a rapid pace for the Old Barrens Cottage.
It was nearly dark when they reached it, and all around was ominously silent and still. Ray’s heart sunk as he pushed open the door and entered.
The first person he encountered was Pet Lawless, who uttered an exclamation of joy as she beheld him.
“Oh, Petronilla! is he alive yet?” he asked.
“Just alive, and no more. The doctor says he has only a few hours to live.”
“Thank Heaven that we find him alive at all,” said Ray.
Then motioning the others to follow, he passed into the sitting-room.
It was tenanted only by the dying man and his wife, Marguerite. She crouched beside him just as Ray had seen her last—just as if she had never risen a second since.
The earl and countess followed, Ranty coming last. Lady Maude trembled like an aspen, and clung to her husband’s arm for support.
“Father!” said Ray, going over, and bending down.
He opened his eyes and looked up, vacantly at first, but with brighter light when he saw who it was.
“Back at last!” he exclaimed. “And her—have you seen her?”
“She is here beside you. Come, my dearest mother!”
He supported the trembling form of Lady Maude to the couch, and she sunk down beside it on her knees, and hid her face in her hands.
A light seemed to flash into the wan face, lighting up the sunken eyes of the dying man. He half-raised his hand, as if to take hers, and then it fell heavily on the quilt.
“Maude! Maude!” he cried out, “can you forgive me before I die?”
She looked up, lifted her pale, beautiful face to his, laid her hand on his pallid brow, and softly and sweetly murmured:
“Yes, as I hope to be forgiven. May God forgive you, Reginald, as I do.”
His strong chest heaved, rose and fell, as if the spirit within were trying to burst its bonds before the time.
“You have heard all, Maude?”
“Yes; all—all.”
“And you forgive me the great wrong I did you, Maude?”
“Freely and fully, from my heart and soul.”
“And you will acknowledge our son when I am gone? Oh, Maude! I loved you through all. I was unworthy of you; but I loved you as none other loved before. Maude, where is he?”
“Who? Reginald?”
“Your—Lord De Courcy. Is he here?”
“Yes. My dear old friend, I am sorry for this,” said the earl, stepping forward.
The dying rover held out his hand, and Lord De Courcy took it in his strong clasp.
“I am glad you have come—I am glad you are her protector through life. Do you remember our last parting, Lord Ernest?”
“That night? Yes.”
“Ah! that night—that night! What a different man I might have lived and died but for that dark, sorrowful night! What trouble and sorrow that night caused you, too! It turned my poor mother’s brain, Lord Ernest; and—she stole your child!”
“I know it.”
“Do you not want to see her!—have you seen her?”
“Not yet. I will see her soon.”
“Where is my daughter, Raymond?” asked Lady Maude, looking wistfully round.
“Up-stairs with her grandmother, madam,” said Pet, respectfully. “She does not know you are here. Shall I go and tell her.”
“Not just yet,” said Lord De Courcy. “My dearest love, subdue your impatience for a few moments—remember, you are in the presence of the dying. You have waited for her all these years—you can afford to wait a few moments longer now.”
“How is my grandmother?” asked Ray, in a low tone, of Pet.
“The same as you saw her last—in a sort of dull stuporall the time; neither sees, hears, nor feels, apparently. They brought her upstairs this morning, and Erminie has been with her since.”
“How does Erminie bear the news of her new-found parents?”
“Very quietly—with a sort of still, deep joy not to be expressed in words. She says she always knew that sweet, lovely lady with the soft, beautiful eyes was something to her, used to come to her in dreams, or something—odd, ain’t it? And she’s your mother, too, Ray! I declare, it’s all the strangest and most romantic thing I ever heard of!”
“We, too, have had our troubles,” said the dying man, making a faint motion toward Marguerite. “Perhaps it was a just retribution of heaven for what you were made to suffer. We, too lost a child; had she lived, even I might have been a different man to-day. She was lost, and all that was originally good in my nature went with her. My poor little Rita!”
“What did you say? Rita!” exclaimed Maude, as she and her husband gave a simultaneous start.
“Yes. Marguerite was her name; Rita we always called her—why?” he asked, in surprise.
“She was lost, did you say? How? did she die?” breathlessly demanded Lady Maude.
“No; she was carried off, perhaps by gipsies—she was kidnapped.”
“How old was she at the time?”
“About two years old—why?” for the first time spoke the woman Marguerite, starting up.
“Was she dark, with black hair and eyes.”
“Yes, yes, yes!Oh, Mon Dieu!why?”
“Did she wear a cross upon her neck bearing the initials ‘M. I. L.?’” wildly broke in Marguerite. “A little gold cross with these letters, which was mine when I was a girl, and stood for Marguerite Isabella Landry, my maiden name, was round her neck. Oh, madam! in heaven’s name, do you know anything of my child?”
“I do! I do! I found her, I brought her up as my own and she lives with me now. Just Heaven! how mysterious are thy ways!” exclaimed the awe-struck Lady Maude.
There was a wild cry, and the woman, Marguerite, fell fainting on the floor.
Ray bore her away in his arms, and Pet hastened out to attend her. At the same moment a change came over the face of the gipsy’s son—a dark shadow from an invisible wing—the herald of coming death.
Both held their breath. Great throes shook the strong form before them, and the deathdew stood in great drops on his brow. Lady Maude wiped them off, pale with awe.
The mighty death agony ceased at last and there came a great calm. He opened his eyes and fixed them, with a look of unspeakable love, on the face bending over him.
“Maude,” he whispered, in a voice so low that it was scarcely audible, “say once more you forgive me.”
She took his cold hand in both hers, and bending down, touched her lips to his pale brow, while her tears fell fast on his face.
The hand she held grew stiff in her clasp; she lifted up her head and her heart for an instant, almost ceased to beat. Reginald Germaine, the wronged, the guilty, was dead!
“May God have mercy on his soul!” fervently exclaimed Lady Maude.
“Amen,” sadly and solemnly responded her husband.
Both arose. At the same moment the door opened and Ray appeared, holding the pale and agitated Erminie by the hand.
“Your father and mother, Erminie,” he briefly said, as he again went out and closed the door.
And in the dread, chilling presence of the dead, the long-divided parents and child were reunited at last!