"A brow whose frowns are vastly grand
And eye of star-lit brightness:
A swan-like neck, and arm and hand
Of most bewitching whiteness."
—PRAED.
And now, reader, are you willing to retrace your steps with me, and go back to those we left behind, long ago, in England?
The sudden death of the Earl De Courcy fell heavily on the hearts of Lord Villiers and Lady Maude; but they mourned as those on whom the heaviest blow Fate can bestow has already fallen, and all other griefs seemed light in comparison.
The servants spoke of the dark, shrouded figure who had been seen to enter but never depart; but as it was evident the earl had died, and not been murdered, no suspicion was attached to this. And so, with stately pomp and ceremony, Hugh Seyton, fourth Earl De Courcy, was laid to rest in the family vault, and Lord Villiers took the title, and was now fifth Earl De Courcy.
In the bustle of the funeral, and the duties of his elevated station he found means to withdraw his mind at times from the loss of his child; but his lovely countess mourned still, and "would not be comforted."
Had she been assured of Erminie's death, she would have grieved, it is true: but not as she grieved now. Had she beheld her beautiful child laid in the grave, she would have mourned; but not with mourning like this.
What had been her fate? Was she living or dead? into whose hands had she fallen? What would be her future fate?
Night and day, these thoughts were ever uppermost in her mind, darkening her very soul with anguish and despair. Enormous rewards had been offered for the slightest clue to her abductor; for upward of a year, the keenest detectives in England were put on the track. But all was in vain. The wide sea rolled between parents and child, and as well might they looked for last year's snow as for lost Erminie. And so at last the search was given up in despair; the sensation it had created died away; the circumstance was almost forgotten by all but the bereaved parents. But they—oh! never could they forget sweet, blue-eyed little Erminie! While the search continued, Lady Maude had hoped. Day after day passed, and no tidings were brought her of the lost one; but still she wildly hoped. Month after month waned away; no trace of her child could be discovered, and still she madly hoped. Each day she rose with beating heart, at the thought that perhaps before night sweet Erminie might be restored. Every passing footstep sent a thrill to her heart, in the anticipation that it might be the bearer of the glad tidings. Through all the long, weary months of vain watching and waiting, she had hoped against hope until the last.
But now—now when the search was given over in despair—came the full realization of her utter bereavement. Then the mortal anguish and despair she had long struggled against overwhelmed her soul; and, hating the sunlight, the glad earth, and bright sky above, she buried herself in deepest mourning, shut out the light from her room, and, in silence and darkness, still mourned for her lost one, and "would not be comforted."
On the heart of her husband the blow had fallen no less heavily; but crushing back his bitter sorrow to his own noble heart, he calmed himself to console her. Of all her friends—of all who loved her, she would admit no one to her presence but him; and folded to his heart, she sat for hours, day after day, white, still, cold, and silent. When he left her, she threw herself on her couch, and, in the same strange stupor, remained there until he came back.
At first, he had permitted Nature to have her way, thinking her sorrow would be less enduring if left to wear itself out; but when months and months passed, and no change came, and he saw her growing whiter and more fragile day after day, he began to think it was time something else was done to rouse her from this destroying grief.
"Maude, Maude! this is wrong—this is sinful!" he said, holding her little wan hands, and looking sadly down into the white, cold face. "This rebellious murmuring must not be indulged longer. Dearest Maude, rouse yourself from this trance of despair, and remember our Erminie is in the hands of One who 'doeth all for the best.' He who noteth even the fall of a sparrow will protect our angel child."
A shiver, a shadow, a fluttering of the heart, and that was all. No words came from the pale lips.
"Have faith, sweet wife, and trust in God. Overcome this selfish grief, and remember there still remain many for you to love—many who love you. Live for them, my own Maude; live for me; live for the heaven where our Erminie has gone."
"Oh, my child! my child! Would to God I had died for thee!" broke in a passionate cry from the white lips of the mother.
The manly chest of Lord De Courcy rose and fell; the muscles of his face twitched for a moment convulsively, and his arms strained her in a closer clasp.
"Our child prays for her mother in heaven. Grieve not for her, dear love. And am I not left to you still?"
"Oh! it was my fault—it was my fault! I left her alone, helpless and unprotected, while I was enjoying myself down-stairs. There was no one to watch her—no one to save her. All were gone, and she was left to perish! Oh, my child! my child!"
No words can describe the agony, the remorse, the undying despair of her tones, so full of a mother's utmost woe. Then blessed tears came to her relief and, bowing her head on her husband's shoulder, she wept convulsively.
It was the first time she had shed a tear since the loss of her child. Lord De Courcy hailed this as a favorable symptom, and permitted her to weep, undisturbed, until the very violence of her grief had exhausted itself; and then raising her head, and smoothing back the dark curls from her high, pale brow, he said, softly:
"My Maude is morbid in her grief. She has nothing to reproach herself with. Since Heaven willed we should lose one angel it gave us, is it not our duty to be resigned?"
"Oh! if she had died—if I knew she were sleeping quietly in her grave, I could be resigned. But this dreadful uncertainty is killing me. Oh, Ernest! since God gave me two children to love, why has He decreed I should lose them both?"
It was the first time since her marriage she had spoken of that other child; and, for one instant, Lord De Courcy's brow grew dark at the unpleasant memories it brought back. The shadow was gone as quickly as it came; and, stooping down, he pressed a kiss on her brow, as he replied:
"He knows best, love. If He has given us griefs, was He not a sufferer of sorrow himself? Rouse yourself from this lethargy of grief, Maude. Does it console you to make those around you wretched? For, Maude, I can not tell you how much it adds to my grief—how miserable it makes all those who love you, to see you yield to this lethargy of despair. Do you think I do not feel the loss of our beautiful child? And yet, Maude, I do not give way to this utter abandon of despair, because I know it is positively wrong. There is a sort of luxury in yielding to grief, and permitting it to have its way; but it is an essentially selfish luxury; and I trust my Maude will view it in its proper light, and pray for a more Christian spirit."
"Forgive me, my husband," she softly murmured. "Bear with me a little longer. I know I am weak and rebellious; but oh! there never was sorrow like unto mine!"
But from that day, a change was manifest in Lady Maude. Loving her husband with almost adoring worship, for his sake she strove to shake off the "luxury of grief" he had spoken of, and resume her place in the world as before. At first, the trial was hard—almost too hard for her to bear, but his pleasant smile, his thrilling whisper of thanks, the earnest pressure of his hand, told her her efforts were understood and appreciated, and more than rewarded her for the sacrifice she had made.
And thus five years glided away, unmarked by any event worth recording.
The young Earl De Courcy as a statesman and politician, had become a demigod with the public, and one of the leading men of the day. In the whirl of busy life, in the maelstrom of politics, little Erminie was not forgotten, but her memory had grown to be a sweet, haunting shadow of the past—a tender, beautiful recollection, that came to him like a strain of sweet music heard amid the discordant crash and din of the busy world. He thought of her now as an angel-visitant, sent to smile on him for a moment, and then taken back to the heaven from which she had come, to pray for him there.
The intense sorrow of the Countess De Courcy had also been subdued and rendered far less poignant by time. She too, had been obliged, by her elevated position, to resume that place in the fashionable world she was so well fitted to fill. But when in the glittering assembly, the brilliant ball, the gorgeous pageant, was sweet, lost Erminie forgotten? Never? Outwardly, that one great sorrow had left its traces still in the deeper pallor of the lovely face, in the subdued light of the large, melancholy dark eyes, in the soft, tender smile that seemed something holy as it hovered around the sweet, beautiful lips. It had made her a gentler, better woman, with a heart ever melting at the cry of distress, with a hand ever ready to relieve it. It had humbled her pride; it had elevated her soul; it had made her gentle, tender, and more saintly then ever before. Her love for children amounted almost to a passion; those "human flowers," as some one prettily calls them, could at any time arrest her attention, and make her forget all else. Not a child among all the earl's tenantry that had not received proof of her affection, in the shape of creature-comforts and even as she idolized children, so was she invariably loved by them in return.
The country seat of the De Courcys was a fine old mansion, embowered in trees, with splendid parks, fine preserves, and surrounded by beautiful scenery. Here, with their friends, the earl and countess were in the habit of going each summer, to spend a few weeks; and here the happiest moments of Lady Maude were spent, wandering through the dim old woods, where she could dream, undisturbed, of her lost darling.
Taking her accustomed walk, one day, she was arrested by the loud cries of a child near. With her sympathies ever enlisted for children, she glanced quickly in the direction, and beheld a little, infantile-looking child of two years old apparently, gazing bewildered, and screaming away at the top of its lungs.
Lady Maude approached, and at a single glance became deeply interested in this little stray waif.
It was a face of singular beauty that met her eye. A dark olive complexion, large, brilliant black eyes, coal-black hair that now hung tangled and disordered over her shoulders. Her little dress was torn, and her hands and face scratched with brambles. The child was evidently lost.
Lady Maude approached; and the child, turning to gaze on her, for a moment ceased her cries. Stooping down, she parted the elf-locks off the dark little face, and gazed long and earnestly down into the bright eyes that fearlessly met her own. Something in that face haunted and troubled her; it seemed to her she had seen it before. Yet that could hardly be; for this was not a face easily forgotten, when once seen. The longer she looked, the more and more troubled she grew. It seemed to her she must have seen a face like this somewhere before, and that it was connected with some dark memory—what, she could not tell.
The child, with the confiding confidence of infancy, looked up in the pale, sweet face of the lovely lady, and artlessly lisped:
"Ma mere."
"French," murmured Lady Maude, in surprise. "How in the world can she have come here? Where is 'mother,' little one?" she asked, in the same language.
"Gone away—bad man get Rita," lisped the little innocent, pulling Lady Maude's dress, as if to urge her along.
The countess was at a loss, and perhaps would have gone with the little one further into the woods, had not one of the earl's gamekeepers come up at that instant, and taking off his hat, said:
"Better not venture into the woods, my lady; a gang of gipsies passed through, last night." Then catching sight of Rita, as the child called herself, he burst out in surprise; "Why, bless my soul! here's one of 'em!"
"Does this child belong to the gipsies?" asked Lady Maude, who never could hear the word gipsy without a sudden red light flushing to her pale cheek.
"Yes, my lady; saw her with them when they passed through, last night. S'pose she's got left behind, in a mistake. I don't believe she's one of 'em, though; stole, most likely."
"Do you think so?" said Lady Maude with interest. "She does not look unlike a gipsy. Why do you think she has been stolen?"
"Why, my lady, if she had been one of themselves, some of the women would have had her; but nobody seemed to own this one, or to care about her. I saw one of the men draw her along side of the head, last night, with a blow that knocked her down. Lord! how my fingers were itching to do the same to him!"
"Poor little thing!" said Lady Maude, compassionately, folding her in her arms with a sudden impulse. "Poor little thing! Yes, now I think of it, it is more than probable she has been stolen, for she cannot speak English. Carry her to the hall; her poor little feet are all cut and bleeding, and we can not allow her to perish here."
The man lifted the child in his arms, and followed the countess to the hall, where she gave orders to have the little foundling properly dressed and cared for, before presenting her to the earl. He smiled as he listened to her story, and followed her to the room where little Rita, now washed and neatly dressed, sat on the floor playing with some toys. But as his eyes rested on the dark, brilliant face, the smile faded away, and a half-puzzled, half-doubtful look took its place.
"Is she not beautiful, dear Ernest? Does she not remind you of some bright, rich, tropical flower?" said Lady Maude, in admiration.
"Or some bright-winged, gorgeous little butterfly—yes," said Lord De Courcy. "But, Maude, it seems to me—I can not account for it—but it seems as if I had seen her somewhere before."
"Oh, my lord! have you, too, observed it?" cried Lady Maude, breathlessly. "It was the first thing that struck me, too. How very singular!"
"I suppose she resembles some one we have both known. There is no accounting for the strange likenesses we see sometimes in total strangers. Well, what do you intend to do with this little bird of paradise you have caught?"
"Let her remain here in charge of the housekeeper. I cannot account for the strange interest I feel in this little one, Ernest."
"I should like to see the child you do not feel an interest in, Maude," he said, smiling. "But are there no means of finding out to whom she belongs? Her parents may be living, and lamenting her loss, even now, dear wife."
A sudden shadow fell on them both at his words and the recollection they recalled. Earl De Courcy's eyes softened with a tender light as he gazed on the child's, and Lady Maude's were full of tears as she stooped down and kissed the small, red mouth.
"There are no means of discovering them, Ernest," she said, half sadly. "The gipsies are gone; but Martha found a little silver cross round her neck, on which were engraven the letters 'M. J. L.' I have laid it carefully aside, though I fear her parentage may never be discovered."
"Well do as you like with her, dear Maude. The child is certainly very beautiful. I believe you love all children for our lost treasure's sake."
"Oh, I do—I do! my sweet, precious Erminie! Oh, my lord! if this little one had blue eyes and fair hair like her, I could find it in my heart to adopt her, for our darling's sake."
"You would not let such a trifle as that prevent you, Maude, if you really wished it. But let the child remain. Rita—that's her name, isn't it?—come here, Rita."
He held out his arms. Rita looked at him from under her long eyelashes, and then going over, nestled within them just as Erminie used to do.
The simple action awoke a host of tender memories that for a moment nearly unnerved the earl. Rising hastily, he kissed Rita and left the room. But from that day the little stray waif was an inmate of the hall, and with every passing day grew more and more deeply dear to the earl and countess. When they returned to the city, Lady Maude would not hear of parting with her pet; so Mademoiselle Rita and her nurse accompanied them; and soon both earl and countess learned to love her with a love only second to that they had cherished for little Erminie.
And so, without legally adopting her, they learned to look up on her, as time passed, in the light of a daughter sent to take the place of the lost one. Rita addressed them by the endearing name of father and mother; and the world tacitly seemed to take it for granted that little "Lady Rita" was to be heiress and daughter of Earl De Courcy.
At seven years old, Lady Rita had her governess and commenced her education. She seemed to have forgotten she ever had any other father and mother than Lord and Lady De Courcy; and they, quite as willing she should think so, never undeceived her.
And so, while the lost daughter was living in poverty, in a little cottage, in her far-distant home, dependent on the bounty of others, the adopted daughter was growing up surrounded by every luxury that fond hearts could bestow upon her.