CRUEL CRISP.
It was near the middle of September that Mr. Platts and his family
returned home. Mary was there to receive them, and very glad to see
them.
It happened one day that Mary, having an unusual amount of work on
hand, had requested Zula to go on an errand for her, to which she,
ever ready to oblige, at once consented. It was nearing twilight and
as Zula started to return home she was met by Crisp, who at once
recognized her in spite of her changed countenance and neat attire.
"Oh, so I have found you. I have looked all over for you," he said.
"Maam wants to see you awful bad; she is so sick and she knows she is
going to die; she says she must see you."
"Is she really ill?"
"Yes," Crisp answered, trying to look sad.
"I am sorry," Zula said.
"Come and see her, then."
"Oh, I can't."
"Yes, you can; you would if you knew how Maam cried after you."
"Then what made her let you whip me so?"
"She's awful sorry, and she says if you will just come home and let
her see you once she could die better."
"Crisp, is it true that Maam is going to die?"
"As true as the stars shine, and she's got something to tell you. I
guess she's got lots o' money to give you, but anyway she wants to
tell you something."
"Well, you stay here then, Crisp, until I go home and tell my mother,
and I will go if you will promise to come back with me, or let me
come."
"Why, yes, I will let you come, but you won't have time to wait. You
must come right away, or Maam might be dead when you got there."
Poor Zula did not know what to do. She feared Crisp, and she could not
bear the thought of going without Mrs. Platts' consent, and then when
she thought of poor Meg dying and longing to see her, her tender heart
yielded, and she thought she must go to her. She would explain all to
Mrs. Platts when she returned, and she knew she would forgive her.
"Crisp," she said again, "are you speaking the truth?"
"Oh, dear, yes; do come, or we won't see her again at all," Crisp
replied, in a troubled voice.
She looked again at Crisp's ugly face, and then she thought of all the
cruel blows he had given her. She knew that the road to the camp with
him would be a dangerous one, but she thought of poor old Meg dying,
and longing to see her, and if she had been cruel to her, she was her
mother, and she would go if Crisp would promise to bring her back that
night.
He gave a solemn promise to do so, and Zula walking along hurriedly,
by his side, wondered whether he had really told the truth, or was it
all a fabrication of his own. Crisp questioned Zula as to where she
had lived, and whether she had to work since she left them, and why
she did not bring back the money she got for the beadwork, to which
Zula replied that she could give them that amount now.
They reached the camp. All was still, for the gypsies were sleeping
soundly.
"Come still," said Crisp, gliding into one of the tents. "'Cause you
might wake her."
Zula followed softly, but no sooner had she entered the tent than she
was seized by Crisp, and her hands bound tightly behind her. Old Meg
arose from her straw bed, and, opening wide her eyes, looked in wonder
at Zula, and as a grin of satisfaction passed over her face, she
asked:
"Where did you find her?"
"On the street in Detroit, and I guess we will keep her this time."
"It's a wonder she did not get away."
"Oh, I told her you was sick and going to die, so she came along."
"You're a good boy, Crisp, and you'll get the money and she'll get the
lashes; yes, yes, she'll get the lashes, the sinful jade, and you can
give 'em to her, and lay 'em on good; tie her tight till to-morrow and
then settle with her."
Crisp did as his mother directed, and Zula knowing his strength made
no resistance. Then he went to his straw bed and slept soundly, until
morning. The sun was well up when he went to Zula, and untying her
hands led her out to a tree, where he bound her, saying:
"Now, you will find who is lady, or who is gypsy."
He wound the lash that he had brought, around his brawny hand, and one
by one the blows fell fast upon the quivering flesh. No word escaped
her lips; but a slight groan followed every stroke of the whip. The
little soft hands were locked tightly together and the face grew paler
and paler, as the strokes left their marks deep and red.
"I'll take the pride out of you, my young queen; you dare not run away
again," said Crisp, growing more and more angry, and giving vent to
his demoniac ire in heavier strokes. As the lash sunk into the flesh a
deeper paleness crept over Zula's face, a heavy groan escaped her, and
"Oh, Crisp," was spoken in a tone full of agony.
Old Meg, who stood watching the proceedings, now advanced, and said:
"Stop, Crisp, not so hard; don't you see you are killing her?"
Zula's head sank upon her breast and an ashen paleness overspread her
face.
"Yes, stop," said a voice close behind him, and at that moment a form
appeared among the trees.
"Who are you?" Crisp asked, angrily.
"It matters not who I am, but I command you to cease your cruelty, and
untie that poor girl. Shame on a man who would commit such a cowardly
deed. If you have a spark of manhood about you let her go."
"What business have you to interfere, I should like to know? She
stays there till she knows how to behave herself."
The stranger deliberately placed his hand behind him, and drawing a
pistol from his pocket pointed it at Crisp, who instantly dropped his
hand by his side, while his ugly face became purple with anger and
fright, as he advanced a step toward Zula.
"I will give you just three minutes to release that girl, and if you
do not do as I bid you your worthless head shall pay the forfeit. You
have already intended murder, and had you been allowed to proceed,
would have ended her life."
Crisp began the work of untying the ropes which bound Zula, whose head
lay upon her breast as motionless as though death had done its work.
When the cords were loosened, the young man bade Crisp carry her to
her bed, which he did, while the stranger followed him. Old Meg
brought a basin of water and bathed her face.
"Is she your daughter?" the stranger asked, addressing old Meg.
"Yes," she replied.
"How, then, can you treat her so cruelly?"
"She runs away, and we have to whip her hard," she said, glancing at
Crisp, who stood like a cowering criminal, gazing on the ruin he had
wrought.
"You whipped her too hard, Crisp," said Meg, who still seemed to have
a spot of pity left in her heart.
Crisp could find nothing to say in self-defense, so remained silent,
but the stranger noticed the look of intense hatred on his ugly face,
as he gazed at the seemingly lifeless form before him. Zula breathed
heavily, then slowly opened her eyes. They rested for a moment on the
face of the young man, then with a sudden start and a flood of tears
she turned and covered her face with her hands.
"Poor girl!" said the young man. "I am so sorry for you."
She tried to arise, but was too much exhausted. The pain inflicted by
the terrible blows had nearly taken her life, and she sank back,
again, white and trembling.
"Oh, I am so ill," she moaned.
"Go for some water, Crisp, and I will make her some herb tea," said
old Meg, and she followed Crisp from the tent.
The stranger took from his pocket a card, and handing it to Zula told
her in case anything of the kind ever occurred again, to make him
acquainted with the fact and he would come to her rescue.
"Can you read the address?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she answered. "I can read, and I thank you so much; perhaps
some day, I can do something to repay you."
She took a steady look at the card, then returned it to him, saying:
"Take it, I shall remember."
"I am afraid you will forget."
"No, I shall not forget, and it will be safer here," she said,
pointing to her forehead. "You know they can't find it here."
He made no reply, for Meg was just coming in with a cup of tea, which
she gave to Zula, who as she drank it, said:
"It is so bitter."
"It will strengthen you," said the old gypsy.
"Will it cure the cuts on my shoulder?" asked Zula.
"That is all nonsense."
"Oh, I know it is cut; and here is one on my arm; I know by the way
they smart."
She raised the sleeve of her dress, and revealed a gash from which the
blood had started.
"Then you must learn to be good. You don't know," she said, turning to
the stranger, "what a bad little thief she is."
"No matter what wrong she has done it does not justify the punishment
you have given her."
Zula's eyes were turned full upon the face of the young man as though
beseeching him not to believe her guilty.
"Will you have your fortune told?" asked Meg.
"For what? I came out to the woods to get fresh air and to practice a
little shooting. I came very near using that young rascal there for a
target. It is quite necessary to keep in practice, I see--but what do
you know of my fortune?"
"I can tell you what you wish to know most."
He laughed.
"See if I cannot."
"Well," he said, prompted by curiosity, "if you can tell me all that,
proceed."
She took his hand, as soft and white as a woman's, and gazing at the
palm, she said:
"You are wealthy."
"Indeed."
"Your parents are both living."
"Yes."
"Your hands are never soiled with work."
"I thought you were to tell me something which I did not know."
"You will marry a beautiful woman."
"Ah! well, that will be no satisfaction if she is not good."
"She will be good and beautiful."
"That is well."
"But there are tears for you, and the stain of blood on your hands."
The young man drew back, then laughed at his own folly.
"No," he said, "there will never be the stain of blood on my hands.
Tears are for us all, but crime is not for me."
"We can't change the fates."
"We weave our own destiny, perhaps."
"Others weave for us and we must take what comes."
"I must go," he said. "Is there any more fortune for me?"
"Yes, there is a great deal to tell."
"I will come some other day and get the rest of it, I must go," he
said, placing a piece of money in her hand. "I suppose you get a great
many silver pieces in this way."
"Oh, yes," she answered, placing the money in a well-filled beaded
bag. "Yes, almost every afternoon the young ladies and gentlemen from
the city come here."
"Well, I cannot see that I have learned anything," said the young man,
thinking that she had given him all that her wicked heart would allow,
and that the criminal part was given through spite from his having
interfered in the whipping of Zula. He went to the door of the tent
and bade Zula good-bye, then wandered away through the woods.
"Oh, dear," said Zula to herself, with eyes filling with tears; "why
cannot I stay with some one who is kind to me? I wish I could get back
home to dear Mr. and Mrs. Platts, and I will, too, some day. How kind
they were to me. If I ever get a chance to hurt Crisp I'll do it. I
believe I'll kill him."
The thought had scarcely passed through Zula's brain ere she shuddered
at its coming.
"How terrible that would be," she added. "Oh, I wish I could get away
from him; I know if I do not I shall do something terribly wicked. If
I could only get home again I could be good. I do not feel so wicked
when I am with dear Mrs. Platts. I wonder why."
It was not strange that Zula should feel a spirit of revenge while in
the presence of Crisp and his mother.
The gypsy camp was arranged for a dance. Zula lay on her bed and ever
and anon caught a glimpse of some gaily dressed gypsy, as they flitted
by the tent door. A young girl entered the tent, and going to Zula,
said:
"Meg sent me in to tell you to get up and come out; they want you to
play the guitar."
"I don't want to play," said Zula, in a half angry tone. "I am too
lame to play or dance, and they would not let me dance if I could,
just because they know I would enjoy it more."
"Well, I suppose you will have to come anyway, 'cause Meg said so, and
so did Crisp."
"Crispin," and Zula's eyes flashed a light like that of an angry
tiger. "Crisp, I hate him bad enough to kill him."
"I'm sorry for you, Zu," said Fan, as she noticed the great red marks
on Zula's flesh. "I am so sorry, and if I was you I'd----"
"What would you do?"
"I'd run away, and join some other band," said Fan, coming close and
whispering the words in Zula's ear.
"No, I don't want to join any band. I don't want to be a gypsy at all.
Oh, I was so much happier when I was at home and had a nice clean bed,
and everybody was so kind to me."
"Well, that was nice, but you see, you had to work."
"If I did, that was nothing."
"Oh, no, but then we can lay in the shade all we like and have a nice
time, and so we get something to eat and do what we please, what is
the difference?"
Zula felt that there was a great difference, and, gypsy though she
was, she felt that there was more happiness in having employment and
kind friends than all the pleasures of a life of idleness.
"Come, Zu, hurry up, or you will get another flogging."
"If I do it will not kill me, or, if it does I do not care. I wish it
would; I'd rather be dead than live this way."
"It is too bad, I know, but I don't see why they whip you that way. I
never get such poundings."
"Because you are good and mind what you are told," said a harsh,
croaking voice at the door.
Zula looked up, but there was neither love nor fear in the gaze that
fell on her mother's face. She had grown reckless as to fear, and so
accustomed to the pain inflicted by the strokes of the lash, that had
she been commanded to receive fifty, she would have betrayed no
emotion.
"Come, you lazy thing, you may as well make yourself useful; you are
good for nothing anyway, so you may help to make music for the
dance."
"I hate music--that kind, anyway. It's like the croaking of a frog. I
would rather dance if I wasn't so lame and my arms so sore."
"Come along, then; playing a while will cure you, I guess. You have
got most too smart since you ran away and stole your livin' from the
white ladies."
"I didn't steal it; they gave it to me, and didn't whip me either."
"Then they didn't give you what you deserved; but let me tell you,
you'll not get a chance to get away again very soon," said the old
gypsy, with a grin that made her fairly hideous.
Zula made no reply, but as she arose to her feet, scarcely able to
stand at all, she was making a strong resolution in regard to a secret
that a second party did not possess. Some day she would execute the
plan which she had laid out, but she must work with the utmost
caution. She was only a gypsy, which fact she fully realized, but
there was something away in the distant future that her heart cried
out for, and she would reach out until she could grasp it, if she died
in the attempt. She was a gypsy, and she knew she could never be a
fine lady, but she might find a way out of this terrible darkness and
find at least a break in the clouds, if not the broad open sunshine in
which she thought many a one lived.
She had made a resolution to escape from Crisp, but how was it to be
done? She had more than half made up her mind that could she get back
to Mrs. Platts, she would tell her all about her mother, and all the
trouble she had gone through, but in that case they would know she was
a gypsy, and the thought caused a blush of shame to pass over her
face.
When the dance was over she put away the guitar with painfully tired
arms and an aching heart. When she saw Crisp, as he moved about, cast
exultant glances at her, and saw her mother watching her every
movement, then was her resolution formed, not to be changed, for let
come what would, hardships, torture, or even death, nothing should
change her purpose. She would escape, and as she sat quietly working
with her beads, making many pretty articles for sale, her brain was
working more briskly than her fingers, trying to devise a means of
escape.