"—With wild surprise
As 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 you on 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—his name! 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 stupor all 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!