“I think you had best not bring Miss Julia in, for I fear my children
are sickening with the measles, and I should be sorry the pretty
soul ran the risk of taking them,” said a fisherman’s wife to Julia
Aubrey’s nurse, who had been desired in the course of their stroll on
the beach to call and give directions concerning some fruit-nets on
which the poor woman was employed. The nurse looked perplexed; she
had many directions to give, and this was an office of which she was
particularly fond.
“‘O do trust me, nurse, while you go in,’ said Julia eagerly; ‘the
beach is very wide here, and I promise I will not go near the edge; I
will only keep close to the rocks to look for the little shells which
are always left by the tide sticking in the clefts. You will find me
just round that corner.’ The nurse still hesitated. ‘Do, dear nurse,’
said Julia coaxingly, ‘do trust me; you know that the birds are eating
all the fruit, and that the gardener has told you all about the sizes
the nets should be. He can’t come here with his broken leg himself, and
every one else but you would blunder about it.’
“This last argument, though not intentional artifice on Julia’s part,
was certain to carry her point. Julia’s nurse contented herself with
reminding her of her promise to keep away from the waves, and to be
sure not to go beyond the ‘black rock just round the corner.’ Away
tripped Julia, and proud of being trusted out of sight, never stopped
till she had attained the utmost limit of her furlough. The corner of
the cliff once turned, she placed her little basket on the shingle,
and stooping down, began busily to pick up the shells and sea weeds,
which, still wet and shining, glittered most temptingly in the sun.
Her own intentness on her employment, and the deafening murmur of the
waves, chafed as they were at that point by the broken rocks that
fretted their course, prevented Julia from hearing an approaching step,
and the terrified child all at once found her bonnet roughly snatched
off, and her whole head tightly muffled in a woollen cloak. To scream
was impossible, for besides the folds of the cloak, the unhappy child
felt a hard bony hand clapped over them on her mouth. In this way she
was carried rapidly along some distance, when the person who bore her
suddenly stopped. ‘What have you got there?’ asked a harsh voice.
“‘Why, I hardly know, and I hardly know why I took her,’ was the
reply, and the old gipsy (for such she was) shook Julia roughly off
her shoulders. ‘I had been prowling about,’ continued she, ‘since
cock-crow, and had knapped nothing; so, as I found this chick without a
hen to watch it, I took it, rather not to come back without booty, than
for any good it is like to do us.’
“‘Good!’ exclaimed the first voice; ‘I think it’s like to do us a great
deal of ill! They’ll rid the country of us if they catch us, and I
think the sooner we rid it of ourselves the better. We had best take
to the boat again directly. Our old comrade, Dick the smuggler, is now
below just ready to push off, and as his boat brought us at sunrise, so
it had better take us back at sunset, for aught I can see.’
“‘Do you grumble at what I have done?’ said the old woman in a voice of
rage and authority: ‘A’n’t I the mother and the ruler of your tribe,
eh? However, the counsel itself,’ added she less harshly, ‘is good, and
the sooner we are off, I believe, the better.’
“Dick the smuggler, who had lately exchanged for that, his former
profession of gipsy, readily consented to convey the party to some
unfrequented part of the coast, and as soon as the boat was fairly at
sea, Julia’s head was unmuffled, and she was at least allowed to cry
for a few moments at her ease.
“I will not attempt to describe her feelings; indeed, she was too young
to allow of their taking a connected turn. My little readers can easily
guess what it would be to be torn away from their own sweet home, and
all the dear accustomed faces and soft familiar voices attendant on
it, and to find themselves rocking in a rude boat on the rough sea,
surrounded by strange figures, haggard and horrible, and voices rough
or shrill, sometimes uttering unintelligible gibberish, and sometimes
harshly scolding her for being ‘such a simpleton as to cry when nobody
was hurting her;’ adding a threat, that if she did ‘not stop her
whimpering, they would give her something to cry for in good earnest.’
The evening of the next day found the gipsy party safely landed, and
encamping for the night at the edge of the New Forest. The old gipsy
heaped some cloaks on the ground, and pointing them out to Julia, told
her to ‘go to rest, for that was her bed.’ The poor child stopped her
sobbing, and instinctively dropped on her knees, as if she had been in
her own quiet nursery, and clasping her little hands, began her evening
prayer. ‘O Lord, thou art a God of great power and mercy, thou seest
me by night as well as by day;’ when she was stopped by a blow across
the shoulders from the old gipsy, accompanied by an angry order to ‘lie
down; for,’ added she, muttering, ‘who that sees her do _that_, will
think she belongs to _us_?’
“But there was one of the horde on whom Julia’s action and
half-finished prayer had made a far different impression. There was
among the gipsies an orphan girl, named Keziah: her father and mother
had died in her infancy, and her grandmother (the same old woman who
had stolen Julia) had brought her up with more of tenderness than might
appear to have belonged to her nature. She was delicate in health, and
timid in disposition; so that, not being thought fit to share in their
predatory excursions, it was generally her office to remain with their
tent, to watch their fires, or to dress the provisions they brought.
Solitude had given a thoughtful cast to her young mind, and many were
the vague notions of better things that wavered across it during her
hours of lonely watching in the dark hollows of the woods, or the quiet
nooks of the green lanes in which their tent was commonly pitched. She
had, too, occasionally heard the sabbath bells, and she had seen from
the hills the villagers flocking to their parish churches; and well she
knew they went there to worship some Being of whom she had been taught
nothing; and when the last lingerers had quitted their leaning postures
by the rails and grave-stones in the sunny churchyard, and the sound
of the closing of the doors reached her ears, followed by the burst of
solemn melody as the congregation, with one heart and one voice, sent
up the sacrifice of their morning hymn, Keziah would throw herself on
the green sward, and folding her arms passionately across her breast,
sob out, ‘O that I could hear the words that flow from those happy,
happy lips, that I might join them too!’ But any questions which
she ventured on the subject of the unknown Being whom she panted to
worship, were received with ridicule by the younger gipsies, and with
anger by her grandmother. The beginning of Julia’s simple prayer--‘O
Lord, thou art a God of power and great mercy, thou seest me by night
as well as by day,’ gave the poor ignorant Keziah more knowledge of her
Creator than she had ever before had an opportunity of possessing.
‘She shall teach me,’ thought the young gipsy to herself; and when
she laid herself down to rest that night, she drew her heap of straw
close to Julia’s bed, and clasping her own hands beneath her cloak, she
repeated in her heart the words she had just heard uttered.
“The terror and fatigue of the preceding day, and a night passed in the
open air, had their natural effect on poor Julia. The next morning she
was ill.
“‘What shall we do?’ said the old gipsy; ‘it would bode us no good that
she should die here. Keziah,’ added she, ‘thou art fonder of nursing
sick bantlings than the rest of us, I give this one to your charge. If
she gets well, thou canst make her pick sticks for thee to feed the
fires, and she will be some company for thee, and may be, hinder thee
from getting so mopish as thou hast done of late, by being left so
much alone.’
“Keziah received her charge most gladly, and from that hour Julia was
carried on the young gipsy’s back by day, and folded in her arms, with
her cloak wrapped closely round her, by night. To guard her little
charge from fresh cold, Keziah spread a tent each night, under which
they slept. She purposely placed it a few yards distant from the
rest of the party, and before they composed themselves to sleep, she
said softly to Julia, ‘Now you may safely kneel down and say what my
grandmother hindered you from saying the first night you were with us,
but not too loud, and you shall teach it to me too in a whisper.’
“‘O, may I?’ said Julia. ‘I shall not be so very unhappy now, for that
will make me fancy myself at my home before I go to sleep, and then
perhaps God will comfort me by letting me dream of my own dear papa and
mama; and I will teach you my morning prayer also, and my catechism
that I used to read every morning in my bed. It is about ‘the great God
who made heaven and earth,’ and about his Son Jesus Christ’s coming
down from the sky to die for us, that God might forgive us our sins,
and about our going to live with God in heaven after we die if we are
good, and going to everlasting fire if we are wicked. O, I will tell
you all mama has taught me, for you are very kind to me, though you do
live with that cruel old woman.’
“‘Hush!’ said Keziah, ‘she is my mother’s mother, and she is kind to
_me_; but I wonder she could find in her heart to bring you away; but
I will do all I can to comfort you, if I cannot make you happy;’--and
the young gipsy kept her word.
“From this time Keziah and her little charge were inseparable. During
the absence of the rest of the party on their foraging excursions,
Keziah and Julia were left for hours together alone. These hours were
sometimes passed by Keziah in eagerly listening to all that her little
companion could tell her of her God and her religion; sometimes,
to amuse the poor child, the gipsy girl would sing to her the wild
ballads of her tribe; sometimes she would teach her to detect the
scarlet strawberry from beneath its dark green leaf, or the dormouse’s
moss-covered hoard. She would tell her the names and notes of the
woodland birds, and point out to her the crested wren’s nest swinging
from the branches of the oak, or the oval one of the blue titmouse,
wove of many-coloured lichens, and filled so full of tiny eggs with
the yoke blushing through their transparent shell. At other times they
would watch together the parent squirrels climbing over their nest,
followed by their young ones, to be carefully practised in balancing
their feeble limbs on the waving branches of the firs, and, their daily
exercise over, to be led back to rest and shelter; often too the young
gipsy would teach her little favourite to plat baskets of rushes and
variously tinted mosses. At these times, Keziah’s promise was more than
kept: Julia was ‘comforted,’ and not unhappy; but then came the old
gipsy’s return, and her detested sight brought back all Julia’s terror
and heart-breaking pinings for her home.
“Nearly four months had passed since Julia had first been stolen by the
gipsy, and the party were encamped in a secluded hollow of Windsor
Forest, about two miles distant from the town of Egham. The prospect
of the races had drawn the gipsies to the spot. The number of the idle
and the thoughtless which such a scene attracts, the pauses between the
heats, to relieve the tediousness of which any amusement of the moment
is eagerly caught at, promised a rich harvest to the tribe of whom
fortune-telling was one of the most profitable callings. ‘I must have
the loan of your puppet for the day, Keziah,’ said the old woman on the
first morning of the races; ‘a pretty face at one’s back pays well on a
race-course.’
“Keziah and Julia exchanged sorrowful looks; it was all they dared do,
and even this was observed by the keen-eyed gipsy. She stooped her
shrunk body so as to bring her withered face even with her victims, and
grinding her teeth, muttered in a voice of suppressed fury, ‘And hark
ye, good for nought, if thee dost but speak or look without my bidding,
no fowl that thou hast seen plucked and roasted by our crackling fire,
has ever died the death that thou shalt.’ Then pausing to enforce the
warning, she pointed her skinny finger, and shook her grizzly head, and
ordered Keziah to ‘pack the bantling on her back.’ The girl obeyed,
and as she arranged the folds of the cloak so as to shade her poor
favourite from the scorching rays of the sun, she imprinted a kiss and
a tear on her pale, pale cheek.
“Once more, then, the terrified Julia found herself in the grasp of her
cruel enemy, who, without speaking to her again, tramped on at a rapid
pace towards the race-course.
“The sight of the gay carriages filled with ladies (‘such looking
ladies,’ thought poor Julia, ‘as her mama’s friends used to be,’)
brought a momentary gleam of joy to her mind; but it vanished in an
instant, for, as if guessing the feeling, the old gipsy made a sudden
stop, and turning back her head, again shook her grizzly locks, again
pointed her bony finger, and grinning horribly, muttered the terrible
word--‘Remember!’
“Many were the silver coins which were grasped in the old gipsy’s
hand that day. With the cunning of her tribe, she knew how to adapt
her language to the temper of each party that she addressed. To the
young and trifling she presented herself as a shrewd and flattering
fortune-teller; to the old and grave, as a starving beggar, with an
orphan grand-child depending on her for support; and many a copper coin
was exchanged for one of silver, when the donor chanced to cast a
look at the pale and innocent face which looked sadly from the gipsy’s
shoulder.
“Among the former description of parties one now attracted the old
woman’s notice. An open barouche contained a lady, with two or three
merry-looking girls, who might be her daughters: they were gaily
chattering with their brothers and their brother’s friends, some of
whom were hanging about the carriage, and others coaxing their horses
to stand patiently near it.
“‘Do ye draw off your glove from your pretty white hand, and let me
just cross the marks with a bit of silver.’
“‘We don’t want our fortunes told, my good woman,’ said the elder lady.
“‘Not _you_ I know, my lady; _your’s_ is made already, and a happy one
it is, my lady; but these pretty _young_ ladies would surely like to
know.’
“‘Do send the woman away, George,’ said Mrs. Carleton, addressing her
son, ‘I am quite sure she will get knocked down among all these horses,
and that poor child at her back looks frightened out of its very
senses.’
“At that moment there was a rush to the ropes. The clerk of the course
was clearing it. The sudden crack of his whip, accompanied by the
shouts of the people near him, alarmed the horses round Mrs. Carleton’s
carriage: one of them made a desperate plunge, and in an instant the
old gipsy was trampled beneath its feet. A scream of horror burst from
Mrs. Carleton’s lips, whilst all the young men instantly dismounted and
crowded round the unfortunate gipsy. ‘Is she killed? O tell me! Is the
child injured?--Do speak,’ continued Mrs. Carleton.
“‘The old woman is certainly stunned, and I fear her forehead has been
severely kicked. The child is not hurt; she dropped it from her back, I
believe, the moment the horse first plunged,’ answered her son.
“‘O pray lift the poor child into the carriage!’ said his mother, ‘I
will take charge of her for the present; the poor old woman had better
be carried instantly into a booth, and see what can be done for her.’
“‘The surgeon of our regiment is on the course,’ said Captain Wyndham,
one of the gentlemen who stood near; ‘I will ride instantly, and seek
for him.’
“‘O do!’ exclaimed Mrs. Carleton; ‘and George, you can endeavour to
find out any of the gipsy party to which the unfortunate old woman
belongs, and tell them where the child may be found, for I will drive
directly home, and take the poor little creature with me.’
“In another moment the carriage was rapidly proceeding towards Oakley
Hall, while poor little Julia sat pale and trembling on Mrs. Carleton’s
lap, every now and then bending forward and looking fearfully behind.
The Carletons watched her in silent pity, attributing her anxious looks
and evident trepidation to alarm for the fate of the wretched gipsy.
At length Julia could bear her suspense no longer, and she timidly
whispered--‘Will she follow us?’
“‘I hope she soon may be able,’ replied Mrs. Carleton, wishing to
soothe the anxious child. Julia shuddered, and became again silent.
“‘Emma,’ said Mrs. Carleton to her younger daughter, when they reached
home, ‘I give this poor child into your care, while your sisters and
I are at dinner. Comfort her as well as you can perhaps, when your
brothers and their friends return, we may have some hope to give her of
the poor old woman’s safety--perhaps she may soon be with her again.’
“‘O no!’ Julia was going to add, but the recollection of the terrible
look and the terrible threat checked her, and she followed her young
conductress in silence to the school-room. Scarcely had General and
Mrs. Carleton sat down to dinner, after waiting some time for the
return of the rest of the party, when their son and his friends entered
the room. They looked grave and harassed, and Mrs. Carleton at once
guessed the tidings which they brought. All efforts to save the old
gipsy had proved vain; but once only had she opened her eyes, and
darted a searching look of mingled rage and pain amongst those who
stood around her, as if she wished to detect and blast the author of
her calamity;--but once, and then they were closed again, and for ever!
“All attempts to discover traces of any of the party to whom she
might be supposed to belong had proved fruitless. Two or three other
gipsies had indeed been seen on the course during the day, but at what
hour they had left it, and in what direction, no one appeared to have
observed.
“The dinner lingered on without any of the party appearing much
disposed to partake of it, when one of the servants brought a note to
Mrs. Carleton. It was written in pencil, and from her daughter Emma.
‘Dear mama,’ she wrote, ‘all of us, and our governess too, feel quite
certain that the poor child you have brought home did not really belong
to the old gipsy, but had been stolen. We judge from her whole manner,
and the things we find, that she has been taught; but when we question
her she only cries, without attempting to answer.--May we dress her in
one of Ellen’s frocks, and bring her down with us after dinner?’
“‘I fear this is some romantic fancy of the children’s, to which their
good-natured governess is won over,’ said Mrs. Carleton, sending the
note to the General; ‘however, I want to see the poor little creature
myself. Tell Miss Emma,’ continued she, addressing the servant, ‘that I
have no objection to her doing as she proposes.’
“In a short time, then, behold the door open, and our poor little Julia
entering between her young protectresses.
“She was dressed in a white muslin frock, her beautiful fair hair,
no longer rough and entangled, fell in graceful ringlets over her
shoulders, and mixed itself with the blue ribbons which looped her
sleeves. She bent her delicate neck forward, and stood in an attitude
of suspense, her sweet eyes looking timidly through their dark lashes
as if in search of some dreaded object, her young lips parted, and
her transparent cheek varying with every instant that passed by. All
at once, she loosed her hands from those of her companions, drew a
deep breath, whilst her forehead and neck became flushed with crimson,
stood one moment irresolute, and then exclaiming, ‘There are none of
them here, and you all look as if you might be my own mama’s friends!’
ran to Mrs. Carleton, and first burying her face in her lap, and then
raising it, and looking beseechingly in her face, added, ‘You would not
be afraid of the gipsies if they _were_ to come, would you?--There are
so many of you!--You will not let them have me, will you? O how my papa
and mama will love you, if you will give me back to them again!’
“Mrs. Carleton was at once convinced that her daughter’s belief was
correct: and deeply affected by the poor child’s earnest appeal, she
took her in her arms, and mixing tears with her kisses, assured her
that she would never part with her excepting to her ‘own mama.’ ‘Then,’
continued she, ‘you did not love the old gipsy, my poor child?’
“‘O no,’ whispered Julia, instinctively glancing round, as the terrible
look crossed her memory; ‘I _could not_ love her, and that often made
me unhappy, because my own mama had told me that I ought to love
every body, and so I used before that dreadful old woman carried me
away.--Do you think my mama will be vexed when she knows I did not
love her?’
“Mrs. Carleton now asked Julia to relate to her all she was able of the
circumstances attending her being stolen. Poor Julia’s story was soon
and simply told, and listened to with the deepest interest by her new
friends. But when she was asked her parent’s name, and the place of
their abode, she could only answer that her papa ‘used to be called Sir
Charles, and that she was called Miss Julia, and that the name of her
home was the Abbey.’
“‘It is strange,’ said General Carleton, ‘that we have no recollection
of having heard of the disappearance of a child under such singular
circumstances.’
“‘You must remember,’ replied Mrs. Carleton, ‘that we were probably
abroad at the time, and an event of such a nature, however talked of at
the moment, is soon forgotten by those not immediately interested.’
“‘I think I do remember something of the kind in the papers during the
Easter vacation,’ said George Carleton; ‘but I know our old curate
hoards up all his newspapers; let us question the little girl as to
time, and then we can send for a packet of the right date.’ Julia’s
simple calendar of the events of the month in which her woodland life
first began, agreed with George Carleton’s recollection--‘The hawthorn
was in blossom, and the hedges full of birds’-nests; the violets and
primroses were nearly over, but the cowslips still in flower.’
“The packet of newspapers was soon before them, and ere long their
search rewarded by the discovery of the following paragraph:--‘We
lament to state that a melancholy occurrence took place on the 2nd
instant at Coombe Beach, by which Sir Charles and Lady Aubrey have been
plunged into the deepest affliction. Their only child, a lovely and
interesting little girl of five years of age, had been imprudently left
on the shingle while her nurse went into a fisherman’s cottage. On the
return of the woman, shocking to relate, her charge was nowhere to be
found; but her bonnet floating on the waves, and her little basket half
full of wet sea-weeds lying on the shingle, too plainly proved that
having ventured too near the edge, she had been caught by a wave, and
carried out to perish in the sea. The body has not yet been washed on
shore.’
* * * * *
“The shades of evening had fallen, the curtains had been closed,
and the lamps placed in the drawing-room of Cove Abbey. It was the
evening of their lost Julia’s birth-day; and though no open allusion
had been made to this circumstance either by Sir Charles or Lady
Aubrey, yet the tender and watchful attentions of the former, and
the forced cheerfulness of the latter, sufficiently proved to each
the recollection that was uppermost in their minds. Lady Aubrey was
apparently intent upon her work, but her head was frequently turned,
and her slender finger raised to brush away the tears that gathered
on her eyelids. Sir Charles stooped over an open book, his forehead
rested on his hand, but from beneath its shade many were the stolen
and sorrowful glances which he cast at the evidences of patient grief
before him.
“Suddenly they were startled from their sad thoughts by the sound of
the gate bell, followed by that of wheels rolling rapidly through the
court. ‘Who can be coming at this hour?’ exclaimed Sir Charles.
“‘And on this night!’ added Lady Aubrey, with a tremulous voice. The
next moment the servant opened the door, and presented a card to Sir
Charles, saying, ‘The gentleman requests, Sir, to be allowed to speak a
few minutes with you in private,--General Carleton.’
“‘I know no such person,’ said Sir Charles; ‘however,’ added he to the
servant, ‘order lights into the library, and show the gentleman there.
I will attend him immediately.’
“The servant left the room, and Sir Charles lingered an instant to
address a few words of soothing tenderness to Lady Aubrey, and then
followed to the library to join his unknown guest. What was his
surprise, when, instead of a formal explanation of the purport of his
visit, he found his hand eagerly grasped by the stranger, while he said
with a voice tremulous from emotion, ‘Sir Charles, can you bear good
news?’
“‘I have already borne evil tidings,’ answered Sir Charles sorrowfully,
‘and I believe, were happy ones in store, they would not upset me.’
“‘Your child, then, is safe!’
“‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Sir Charles, staggering, and grasping a pillar
for support, ‘say, say the words again, that I may know I heard them
right.’
“‘Your child is safe, and,’ continued General Carleton, speaking
slowly, and watching the effect his words produced, ‘she is under my
care--she is here--here in my carriage--at your door.’ Sir Charles’s
first impulse was to rush from the room, his second to return, and lay
his hand on General Carleton’s shoulder; ‘I cannot thank you now,
but may God reward you for all we must have owed you. I will not even
see my child till I have imparted the strange, joyful tidings to her
broken-hearted mother;--but you, our best friend, you will bring her
here, and when her mother is in a state to bear the meeting, I will
lead her to our child.’
“There are some scenes which cannot be described in words, because in
them words have no share. I will pass over, then, the mute swelling of
the heart which followed Lady Aubrey’s first hearing of the safety of
her long-lost child, the burst of passionate tears which relieved that
suffocating feeling, the perpetual claspings to the heart, the long
kisses that seemed as if they could not end, which marked the first
meeting between the parents and their child; the questionings, the
explanations between them, the fervent thanks that were poured on the
kind-hearted General Carleton; and hasten to relate an event which was
alone wanting to the completion of Julia’s newly-restored happiness.
“Mrs. Aubrey and her daughter were hastening home one evening in
September from sauntering in the shrubberies which surrounded the
Abbey. The birds were busily preparing to roost, and darting into their
accustomed haunts in every direction. ‘What is that small-speckled
bird, mama, with a long bent bill, that has just forced itself into the
ivy round the sycamore-tree?’ exclaimed Julia.
“‘I remarked it also,’ replied her mama, ‘but I have no idea of what
species it could be.’
“‘O, if _Keziah_ was here, she could tell me in a moment,’ said Julia
sadly! ‘she knew every bird that flies.’
“‘I really believe,’ said Lady Aubrey, half reproachfully, ‘that my
little girl sometimes almost pines after her woodland life with that
young gipsy.’
“‘Not after my life, mama!--O don’t say that!--but I do want sadly to
see poor, poor Keziah once more.--O if you did but know how kind and
good she was, how she used to carry me on her back when she was ready
to drop herself, and how she used to rob herself of all her own poor
covering at night for my sake, and how she used to let me talk to
her of you and my papa, and pray that God would bless you for having
taught me such wonderful things of Him and of his goodness, you would
not wonder that I love her, and that it grieves me to think she is
still obliged to lead a life that she hates with those wicked, wicked
gipsies.--O mama! I believe that but for her, I should never, never
have lived to come back to you again!’--and Julia burst into tears.
“‘I do not wonder at your feelings, my child,’ said Lady Aubrey
soothingly, ‘and I love your poor Keziah too; and would to God that I
could repay her for all she has done for you!’
“They now reached the house, and were met by a servant, who told Lady
Aubrey that ‘a young girl was waiting, and earnestly begged to be
allowed to speak to her, or to Miss Julia.’
“‘To _me_!’ cried Julia; ‘O it must, it must be Keziah!’
“‘What is her appearance?’ asked Lady Aubrey.
“‘She might be a gipsy, my lady, from her eyes and complexion,’ said
the old butler; ‘but her manner is quite different--quite modest and
simple.’
“‘O, mama, let her, let her come; I _know_ it is Keziah.’
“Lady Aubrey changed colour--‘Are you sure there are no others lurking
near the house?’
“‘I have seen none, my lady.’
“‘Well, let her come,’ said Lady Aubrey: ‘but do you, Andrews, stay
near.’ The old man soon returned, followed by the slight and almost
shadowy form of the gipsy girl. The next instant Julia had sprung to
her neck. Keziah looked timidly towards Lady Aubrey as if doubting
whether she might venture to return the grateful child’s caresses; but
the moist eyes and kindly smile that met her glance encouraged her, and
kissing Julia’s forehead and hands, she burst into a flood of tears.
Keziah’s history was quickly told. As soon as the report of the old
woman’s fearful accident, and the child’s being safe and taken under a
lady’s protection, had reached the ears of the gipsies, who had also
attended the race-course, they concluded that a discovery of their
share in the detention of the child was certain; and instantly quitting
the course, they hastened by by-paths to join the rest of the gang,
whom they had left in the forest. It was immediately determined that,
for the general safety, they should disperse and join themselves singly
to such tribes as they might be able to fall in with; and Keziah, who
had always been despised by some for her timidity, and hated by others
for the partiality with which her grandmother had regarded her, was
permitted to take her own lonesome way unquestioned and uncared for.
Her resolution was soon formed. She owed no duty to any but the old
woman who had met with so terrific an end. The gipsy life, always
distasteful, was now become loathsome to her. She determined to beg
her way to Julia’s home, to give what tidings she could of her to her
parents, if she was not yet restored to them, and at all events to
throw herself on their protection, offering her labour for her bread.
“Many were the dangers and privations which the poor girl had met with
on her weary way. She had sometimes subsisted for days and days on
nuts, roots, and berries; she has sometimes been reduced to beg, and
the glittering silver had been held out to tempt her to spell fortunes:
‘but,’ said she, with a glow of honest pride, spreading over her fine
expressive features, ‘the bread of deceit has never touched these lips.’
“Keziah was now established for ever in her grateful Julia’s home. The
thirst of her soul was gratified. She learned all she had so yearned
to know, of her God, her Saviour, her religion. She had no longer to
gaze at a distance and with mysterious awe, on the walls of a forbidden
church, but she was admitted within its doors, to become, by the rite
of baptism, in name, as she was already in heart--a Christian.”