THE MOTHER'S DESPAIR.
"Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung
From forest-cave her shrieking young,
And calm the lonely lioness--
But soothe not, mock not, my distress."
--BYRON.
Away through the driving storm--through the deepening darkness of coming
morn--through the long, bleak, gusty streets--through alleys, and
courts, and lanes; whirled on like a leaf in the blast that knows not,
cares not, whither it goes, sped the gipsy queen Ketura. There were not
many abroad at that hour; but those she passed paused in terror, and
gazed after the towering form, with the wild face and wilder eyes, that
flew past like a lost soul returning to Hades. She stood on London
bridge, and, leaning over, looked down on the black, sluggish waters
beneath. Many lights were twinkling here and there upon the numerous
barges rising and falling heavily on the long, lazy swell, but the river
elsewhere lay wrapped in the blackness of Tartarus. One plunge, she
thought, as she looked over, and all this gnawing misery that seems
eating her very vitals might be ended forever. One hand was laid on the
rail--the next moment she might have been in eternity; but with the
rebound of a roused tigress she sprung back. Was it the thought of
standing before the judgment-seat of God with all her crime on her
soul--of the long eternity of misery that must follow--that appalled
her? No, she would have laughed in scorn at these, but the remembrance
of her vow, of her oath of vengeance, restrained her.
"No; I will live till I have wrung from his heart a tithe of the misery
mine has felt," she thought; and then a dark, lowering glance on the
black, troubled waters below filled up the hiatus.
Dusky forms, like shadows from the grave, were flitting to and fro,
brushing past her as they went. Restlessly they flew on, as if under
the friendly mantle of darkness alone they dared leave their dens. She
knew who they were--the scum, the offcasts, the street-walkers of
London; and she wondered vaguely, as she caught fitful glimpses of wild,
pale faces, that gleamed for an instant in the light of the lamp, and
then were gone, if any of them had ever felt anguish like to hers. While
she stood clutching the parapet, a female form, in light, flowing
garments, was borne on, as if by the night wind, and stood gazing down
into the gloomy waters beside her. One fleeting glimpse she caught of a
pale young face, beautiful still, despite its look of unutterable woe;
and then, with a light rustle, something went down, far down, into the
waves beneath. There was a sullen plunge, and the gipsy queen leaned
over to see. By the light of one of the barge lamps she saw a darker
shadow rise through the darkness to the surface. For an instant that
white, wild face glared above the black bosom of the Thames, and then
disappeared forever; and with a hard, bitter smile, terrible to see, the
dark, dread woman turned away.
Away, again, through the labyrinth of the city, leaving that "Bridge of
Sighs" far behind--away from the dark dens and filthy purlieus to the
wider and more fashionable part of the town, sped the gipsy queen. There
could be no rest for her this last sorrowful night; as if pursued by a
haunting demon she fled on, as if she would escape from the insufferable
misery that was gnawing at her heart; seeking for rest, and finding it
not. Clutching her breast fiercely at intervals with her dark, horny
fingers, as if she would tear thence the anguish that was driving her
mad, she still flew on, until once again she found herself before the
brilliantly lighted mansion of Earl De Courcy. Swelling on the night
air, came borne to her ear strains of softest music, as if to mock her
misery. Gay forms went flitting past the windows, and, at intervals,
soft musical peals of laughter mingled with the louder sounds of gayety.
Folding her arms over her breast, the gipsy leaned against a lamp-post,
and looked, with a steady smile, up at the illuminated "marble hall"
before her. Her commanding form, made more commanding by her free, fiery
costume, stood out in bold relief, in the light of the street-lamp. Her
dark face was set with a look fairly terrific in its intensity of hate.
And that smile curling her thin, colorless lips--Satan himself might
have envied her that demoniacal smile of unquenchable malignity!
Moving through his gorgeous rooms, Earl De Courcy dreamed not of the
dark, vengeful glance that would, if it could, have pierced those solid
walls of stone to seek him. And yet ever before him, to mar his
festivity, would arise the haunting memory of that convulsed face, those
distended eye-balls, those blanched lips, those upraised hands, pleading
vainly for the mercy he could not grant. Amid all the glitter and gayety
of the brilliant scene around him, he could not forget the pleadings of
that strong heart in its strong agony. He thought little of her
threats--of her maledictions; yet, when some hours later he missed his
son from the gay scene, dark thoughts of assassination--of the unfailing
subtle poisons gipsies were so skilful in, arose before him; and he
shuddered with a vague presentiment of dread. But his son had returned
safe; and now the stately old nobleman stood gayly chatting with a bevy
of fair ladies, who clustered round him like so many gay, glittering,
tropical butterflies.
"Oh! she was positively the most delightful old thing I ever saw!"
exclaimed the gay voice of gay little Miss Clara Jernyngham. "Just like
'Hecate' in 'Macbeth,' for all the world--the very _beau ideal_ of a
delightful Satanic old sorceress! I would have given anything--my
diamond ring, my French poodle, every single one of my lovers, or even a
'perfect love of a bonnet'--to have had her tell my fortune. I fairly
dote on all those delightfully-mysterious, enchanting, ugly old gipsies
who come poking round, stealing and telling fortunes. What in the world
did she want of you, my lord?"
A shadow fell darkly over the brow of the earl for a moment, as he
recollected that dark, impassioned woman pleading for her only son; but
it passed away as quickly as it came, and he answered, with a smile:
"To tell my fortune, of course, little bright-eyes. Am I not an enviable
man?"
"And did she really tell it? Oh, how delightful! What did she say, my
lord?"
"That I was to propose to Miss Clara Jernyngham, who was to say, 'With
pleasure, my lord!'--that I was to indulge her with 'loves of bonnets'
and French poodles to an unlimited extent--that--"
"Now, I don't believe a word of it," said Miss Clara, pouting, while a
peal of silvery laughter arose from the rest. "I wouldn't be a mere
countess at any price. I'll have a ducal coronet, if I die for it! You
know the old Duke of B----, my lord!" she added, in a mysterious
whisper. "Well, he is not quite right in his mind, poor man! and I am
going to propose to him the very first chance! The family diamonds are
superb, and I will become them beautifully, you know! This is strictly
_entre nous_, though; and if you don't tell, my lord, you shall have an
invitation to the wedding, and drink my health in his grace's old wine!"
And, with her pretty little face all dimpled with smiles, Miss Clara
danced away to a window near, and, lifting the heavy curtains, peeped
out.
The earl had bowed, and, with his hand on his heart, had promised, with
befitting gravity, to preserve the young lady's secret inviolate, and
was now turning away, when a sudden ejaculation from Miss Clara's rosy
lips brought him again to her side.
"Oh, my lord! only look!" she cried, in a breathless whisper, pointing
out. "There is that dark, dreadful gipsy we were talking of, herself.
Only look at that awful face; it is positively enough to make one's
blood run cold. Could she have heard us, do you think, my lord?"
At any other time, the gay little lady's undisguised terror would have
amused the earl; but now, with that dark, stern, terrible face gleaming
like a vision from the dead, in the fitful light of the street-lamp, he
felt his very blood curdle. It rose before him so unexpectedly, as if
she had risen from the earth to confront him, that even his strong heart
grew for a moment appalled. Her tall form looming up unnaturally large
in the uncertain light; her unsheltered head, on which the rain
mercilessly beat; her steady, burning, unswerving gaze fixed on the very
window where they stood--all combined, sent a thrill of terror, such as
in all his life he had never felt before, to the very heart of the earl.
She saw them as they stood there; for by the brilliant jets of light,
his imposing form was plainly revealed in the large window. Slowly, like
an inspired sibyl of darkest doom, she raised one skinny hand, and,
while her long, flickering finger pointed upward, her ominous gaze never
for a single instant wandered from his face. So wild, so threatening was
her look, that the shriek she had opened her mouth to utter, froze on
little Miss Jernyngham's lips; and the earl, with a shudder, shaded his
eyes with his hands to shut out the weird sight. One moment later, when
he looked again, the dark, portentous vision was gone, and nothing met
his eye but the slanting rain falling on the wet, glittering pavement.
Slowly and reluctantly, as though unwilling to go, the clouds of night
rolled sullenly back, and morning, with dark, shrouded face and dismal
fog, broke over London.
The crash, the din, the surging roar of busy life had commenced. The
vast heart of the mighty Babel was throbbing with the unceasing stream
of life. Men, looking like specters, in the thick, yellow fog, buttoned
up in overcoats, and scowling at the weather, passed up and down the
thronged thoroughfares. On the river, barges, yachts and boats ran
against each other in the gloom, and curses, loud and deep, from hoarse
throats, mingled with peals of gruff laughter, from crowds of rowdy
urchins on the wharves, who, secure in their own safety, seemed hugely
to enjoy the discomfiture of their fellow-heathens. The dark bosom of
the sluggish Thames rose and fell calmly enough, telling no tales of all
the misery, woe and shame hidden forever under its gloomy waves.
A large, black, dismal-looking ship lay moored to one of the docks, and
a vast concourse of people were assembled to witness the crowd of
convicts who were to be borne far away from "Merrie England" in her,
that morning. Two-by-two they came, chained together hand and foot, like
oxen; and the long, gloomy procession wound its tortuous way to the
vessel's side, amid the laughter, scoffs and jeers of the crowd. Yet
there were sad faces in that crowd, too--faces hard, rough and
guilt-stained--that grew sorrowful as better men's might have grown, as
some friend, son, husband or brother went by, straining their eyes to
take a last look at the land they were leaving forever. Now and then,
some fair young face scarcely past boyhood would pass in the felon
gang--faces hard to associate with the idea of guilt; but most were
dark, savage, morose men, with scowling eyes and guilt-hardened
looks--men inured to crime from their very infancy, and paying crime's
just penalty now.
At last came one who was greeted with an insulting cheer that rung to
the very heavens. And "Hurrah! for the gentleman gipsy!" "Hurrah!
hurrah! for the thief from Eton!" rung out again and again, until the
welkin rung.
Proudly erect, with his fine head thrown back; his full, falcon eyes
flashing with a scorn that made more than one scoffing gaze fall, walked
the son of the gipsy queen.
Shout after shout of derision greeted him as he went on; for the rabble
ever hate those who, belonging to their own class, raise themselves
above them. But when a woman--a wild, haggard, despairing woman--rushed
through the crowd, and greeted him with the passionate cry: "My son! oh,
my son!--my son!" a silence like that of death fell over the vast
throng. Unheeding all around her, the gipsy Ketura would have forced her
way to his side; but she was held back by those who had charge of the
convicts. And the dreary procession passed on its way.
All were on board at last; and the vessel, with a fair wind, was moving
away from the wharf. The crowd was dispersing; and the officer, at last,
who was guarding Ketura, moved away with the rest, casting a
compassionate glance on the face white with woman's utmost woe.
Standing there, with straining eyeballs and clenched hands, the wretched
woman watched the ship that bore away the son she so madly loved. A sort
of desperate hope was in her heart; still, while it remained in sight,
something might intervene to restore him yet. With parted lips and
heaving breast, she stood there, as any other mother might stand, and
watched the sods piled over her child's grave; and still she would not
believe he had gone forever. At last the vessel disappeared; the last
trace of her white sails were gone; and then, with a terrific shriek
that those who heard might never forget, she threw up both arms, and
fell, in strong convulsions, to the ground.