LITTLE ERMINIE.
"Sleep, little baby, sleep,
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast,
But with the quiet dead."
--MRS. SOUTHEY.
Into the great dark gulf of the Past, nearly two years, like two waves
from an ever-flowing sea, had vanished, freighted with their usual
modicum of sorrow, joy, happiness, and despair.
And what changes had those two years brought to the various personages
connected with our tale?
First, Mr. O. C. Toosypegs, in whom I hope my fair readers feel an
interest, had closed the eyes of his rich uncle, pocketed two thousand
pounds, attired himself in the very deepest weeds, and began to turn his
thoughts toward Dismal Hollow, and all "the real nice people around
there."
Miss Clara Jernyngham had obtained the desire of her heart at last, was
"Her Grace of B.," and, blazing in "family diamonds," was toasted as one
of the reigning beauties and belles of the London _haut ton_. As to that
"dear old thing," the duke, the pretty little duchess troubled her head
very little about him; and he was left at home, to amuse himself with
alternate fits of the palsy and gout, and the other diseases old
gentlemen are heir to.
Captain George Jernyngham had risen to the rank of colonel, now, having
been promoted for his bravery in a certain action; and an old uncle,
whom he had hardly heard of before, coming at the same time from the
East Indies with an uncountable lot of money, and the liver disease, was
accommodating enough to die in the nick of time, leaving all his wealth
to our gay guardsman. These two strokes of good fortune enabled Master
George to offer his hand, with a safe conscience, to handsome Lady Kate,
which he did, without even hinting at such a thing as a chandler's shop.
Lady Kate showed her good taste in the selection of a husband, by
accepting him on the spot; and two weeks after, the _Times,_ under the
heading of "Marriage in High Life," announced the melancholy fact that
Colonel Jernyngham was a bachelor no longer.
Of the gipsy Ketura, nothing was known. Now and then, at intervals, Earl
De Courcy would catch a glimpse of a dark, wild face, with streaming
hair, and hollow, sunken eyes, flitting after him like a haunting shadow
from the grave. Wherever he went, night or day, that dusky, ominous
shadow followed, dogging his steps like a sleuth-hound, until the dread
of it grew to be a horror unspeakable--the vague, mysterious terror of
his life. No precautions could rid him of it, until it became the very
bane of his existence. If he walked, looking over his shoulder he would
see that tall, spectral figure coming after; if he sat in his carriage,
and it chanced to stop for a moment, a white, wild face, with great
burning eyes, would gleam in upon him for an instant with deadly hate
and menace in every feature, and then vanish like a face from the dead.
Neither night or day was he safe from his terrible pursuer, until the
dread of this ghostly ghoul wore the very flesh off his bones, reduced
him to a mere living skeleton, poisoned every joy of his existence, made
death and life a blank and a horror, until the birth of his little
granddaughter. And the only tender feeling in his stony heart centered
in her; she became the only thing that rendered life desirable. His love
for the child amounted to idolatry; in its infant innocence and beauty,
it seemed like a protecting angel between him and his terrible pursuer,
lighting the gloom of that awful haunting shadow with the brightness of
unseen wings.
The last cold gleam of yellow sunshine faded from the dull March sky.
Night, with black, starless, moonless face, with cold, piercing wind and
sleet, was falling over London.
The gorgeous rooms, the glittering salons, the spacious halls of the De
Courcy mansion were one blaze of light and magnificence, just as they
were that very night two years before--that awful night of darkest
doom. By all but one that night was forgotten now; for a gay
family-party were to meet to celebrate the first birthnight of Lord De
Courcy's grandchild. Strange, that on the very anniversary of that
dreadful night, another scion should be born to the house of De Courcy.
The guests had not yet begun to assemble; and standing by himself, wrapt
in gloomy thought, the earl gazed darkly out into the deepening night.
You would scarcely have known him, so changed had he grown by the
blighting influence of that horrible incubus. Thin and haggard, with
sunken eyes, projecting brows, snow-white hair and care-worn look, he
stood the very shadow of his former self--a stricken, bowed, gloomy old
man.
Through the inky darkness the rays from the street-lamp sent long lines
of light and shade across the pavement. That very night, two years
before, a face, white with woman's utmost woe, had gleamed upon him in
that very light, as he stood in that self-same spot. He thought of it
now with a convulsive shudder; and the flickering light seemed like a
finger of blood-red flame pointing up to heaven, and invoking its wrath
upon him. With an inward presentiment he looked through the darkness as
if expecting that same dark, unearthly face to appear; and, lo! while he
gazed, as if she had sprung up through the earth, a tall, shadowy figure
emerged from the darkness, and that awful spectral face, he dreaded more
than that of the arch fiend himself, gleamed white and awful through the
gloom. She beheld him there in the light, and again that long, bony arm
was raised, and that flickering finger pointed up to the lowering sky
above, in darkest, voiceless menace. Then, flitting away in the
darkness, to which she seemed to belong, the ghastly vision was gone,
and Earl De Courcy stood frozen with horror to the spot, unable to speak
or move.
At that same hour, a far pleasanter scene was going on in one of the
rooms above.
It was the dressing-room of Lady Maude, into which we once before
introduced the reader. Once again she stood before the mirror while her
maid assisted at her toilet, and chatted with the little Duchess of B.,
who, magnificent in white velvet and emeralds, sat (or rather lay)
half-buried in the downy depths of a lounge--having taken advantage of
her girlhood's intimacy with Lady Maude to come early, and indulge in
what she phrased the "sweetest of talks," before she should descend to
the drawing-room, and begin her nightly occupation of breaking masculine
hearts.
Very fair, very sweet, very lovely looked Lady Maude, as she stood there
with a soft smile on her gentle lips, and a calm, deep joy welling from
the brooding depths of her soft dark eyes.
Her dress was white, even as it had been that night--white blonde over
white satin--with her favorite jewels (pale oriental pearls) wreathing
her shining ringlets of jet, and fluttering and shimmering in sparks of
subdued fire on her white arms and bosom. The lovely young face looking
out from those silky curls was sweeter and fairer now in her gentle
maturity than it had ever been in the brilliant beauty of her girlhood.
Scarcely twenty, her form had not attained the roundness of perfect
womanhood, but was slight and slender as a girl of fourteen, yet perfect
in its elegant contour.
"And the baby is well?" the duchess was languidly saying, as she played
with a beautiful little water-spaniel.
"Quite well, thank you," replied the low, sweet voice of Lady Maude,
with her soft, musing smile.
"I need not ask for his lordship, for I saw him last night at the _bal
masque_ of Madame la Comtesse De St. Rimy!" said the duchess, with some
animation. "He was looking quite kingly as 'Leicester.' By the way, Lady
Maude, why were you not there?"
"Erminie seemed slightly indisposed, I fancied, and I would not leave
her," answered the young mother.
"Is it possible? Well, I am very fond of children; but I do not think I
could give up so brilliant an affair as last night's masquerade even for
such a sweet little angel as Erminie. What do you think, I made a
complete conquest of that handsome melancholy Turkish ambassador, who is
all the rage now! I had him all to myself the whole evening!"
"Was his grace present?" said Lady Maude, a little gravely.
The question took the little duchess so much by surprise, that she
raised herself on her elbow, opened her blue eyes to their widest
extent, and stared in silence at her questioner. Then, seeing Lady Maude
was quite serious, she lay back among the velvet pillows, and burst into
a silvery peal of laughter.
"His grace! Oh, that is too good! Why, Lady Maude, the last time I saw
the poor, dear, old man, which is a week or two ago, he could not stir
either hand or foot, and had to be carried about by that odious Italian
valet of his, in a chair, whenever he wanted to move. The dear, helpless
old thing! he did look so old and so absurd, shaking all over with that
disagreeable palsy of his, that I could not bear to go into his room
since. My maid, Fanchette, always finds out how he is, and tells me. But
the idea of his going to the masquerade! Oh, dear me!"
And the affectionate wife went off into another low, musical peal that
made the pretty, soft-eyed water-spaniel shake his necklace of tiny
silver bells from sympathy, till they tingled again.
Lady Maude looked as she felt--a little shocked--at this heartless
levity; and madame la duchesse perceiving it, began:
"Now, Maude, there is no use in your looking so profoundly scandalized
about it, because I have done nothing so very naughty. You don't expect
me to go and shut myself up, and nurse him--do you? Though I dare say
you, having the elements of a martyr in you, would do it just as soon as
not!"
"I would not flirt with that Turkish ambassador, at all events!" said
Lady Maude, in a tone of slight rebuke. "Have you not heard he has four
wives already?"
"Perhaps he thinks I'll make a fifth some day!" said the duchess,
laughing. "Well, I wouldn't mind much; he is handsome enough for
anything. There! I knew I would shock you again. How saintly you have
grown of late, Maude!"
"Oh, Clara!--Clara! what a mad little flirt you are!" said Lady Maude,
half-smiling--half sorrowful.
"Well, you see it's my nature. What a love of a little dog this is! I
made a _mariage de convenance_; and what other result could you
anticipate? I married the Duke of B. for his coronet; he married me
because he wanted some one to nurse him, and poultice up his
constitution, and sit at the head of his table, and make herself
generally useful. I got what I aimed at; and if he has not, it shows I
am the better politician of the two. Stand upon your hind-legs, Prince!
And, therefore, oh, wise and discreet Lady Villiers! model wife and
happy mother, you must not expect one who is neither to do otherwise
than as she does. If my sole earthly happiness consists in a
'coach-and-four,' superb diamonds, an unlimited number of lovers, and a
box at the opera, why, I rather think I should be permitted to enjoy
them, since I am really not a bad girl after all, and never mean to be.
And now, as your toilet is completed, and I have made quite a long
speech, will your ladyship be good enough to lead the way to the
nursery? I want to see this little stray angel of yours before I descend
among the sinners below."
Smiling, and passing her arm around the slender waist of the thoughtless
little duchess, Lady Maude passed with her from the room, and the two
young girls entered the nursery.
It was a beautiful room, all draped in white and pale-green, pure and
peaceful as a glimpse of heaven. And in the center of the room stood a
little rosewood crib, with snowy hangings, wherein lay a young infant,
so surpassingly lovely that the duchess might well call it a "stray
angel."
Little Erminie--sweet Erminie--the child of noble, princely Lord
Villiers and beautiful Maude Percy--how shall I describe her? It is not
often young babies are really pretty--doting grandmammas and aunties to
the contrary notwithstanding; but this one really was. A snow-white
complexion, with the softest pink tinge on the rounded cheeks and lips,
as faint and delicate as the heart of a sea-shell; a profusion of palest
golden hair falling in slight, rippling waves, like raveled silk, on the
white, rounded forehead. Two tiny blue-veined hands grasped, even in
sleep, a pretty French doll, holding it close to the soft, white bosom,
and the long, golden lashes lay brightly on the rosy, sleep-flushed
cheeks.
The lovely face of Lady Maude flushed with pride, love and happiness;
and bending down, softly as the west wind kisses the sleeping flowers,
her lips touched the babe's.
Light as the caress was, it awoke little Erminie. The golden lashes
slowly lifted, and a pair of sweet blue eyes looked fearlessly up.
"Mamma," she cried, joyfully, holding up her rosy little arms, "mamma,
tate Minnie."
"Oh, the little darling!" exclaimed the duchess, catching her
impulsively up, and half-smothering her with kisses. "Oh, did you ever
see such a sweet little cherub? Oh, there never was such a lovely little
angel! It's just the sweetest, dearest, b'essed, tidsy ickle sing that
ever was, so it is!"
Baby, who evidently was an adept in broken English, and fully understood
that profoundly-mysterious language known as "baby-talk," immediately,
as if in reward for these exclamatory sentences, emphasized by the
strongest italics, held up her rosy little mouth to be kissed again,
being evidently (like all of her sex) fond of that operation.
"Oh, I never never, saw such a perfectly lovely little duck!" exclaimed
the Duchess Clara, in a sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Such sweet hair,
and such splendid eyes! Who does she look like, Maude? Not like you, I'm
sure."
"She has her father's blue eyes and fair hair," said the happy young
mother, smiling at Clara's emphasis, which rendered every other word not
only into italics, but, in some cases, even into capitals.
"Oh, she is the most charming little ducks o' diamonds I ever beheld in
my life! Such a beautiful skin, just like white satin!" reiterated the
duchess, punctuating her remarks by a series of short, sharp little
kisses, that made sweet Erminie open her large blue eyes in subdued
wonder. "Oh, Maude! I don't wonder you are so saintly, with this little
beautiful seraph ever with you! Sweet little angel Erminie! thou almost
persuadest me to be a Christian!"
There was a soft tap at the door, and the nurse, who had hitherto
remained in the back-ground, and listened with professional stoicism to
these raptures, went and opened it; and Lord Villiers entered.
He started in some surprise, as he beheld how the room was tenanted,
and then advanced with a smile. Lady Maude, with more than the adoring
love of two years before, went over, and, laying her hand on his
shoulder, said:
"Clara wanted to see Erminie before we descended to the drawing-room,
dearest Ernest, and has fallen even more deeply in love with her than
she has with the Turkish ambassador, the fortunate possessor of the
interestingly melancholy dark eyes."
Lord Villiers smiled, and looked, with eyes full of love, on sweet
Erminie, who sprung up, crowing gleefully, and crying, "Papa!"
"Wait one moment, till I see. Why, she's the very picture of your
lordship! Keep still, little girl, till I compare you with your papa.
There's the same large, blue, Saxon eyes; the same fair, curling hair;
the same high, princely forehead; the same handsome mouth (no harm to
compliment a married man--eh, Maude); the same long, aristocratic, white
fingers--your very image, my lord!"
"I had rather she looked like Maude," said the young husband, encircling
his wife's small waist fondly with his arm.
"Well, so she does when she smiles. Don't you perceive the resemblance
now? Miss Erminie, will you be still? What a restless little creature it
is."
"Papa, papa, tate Minnie," crowed that small individual, holding out her
little arms, and looking pathetic and imploring.
"Here, papa, take the young lady," said the duchess, depositing her in
the young man's arms, and shaking out her glittering plumage, slightly
discomposed by the frantic exertions of the "young lady" in question.
"She is fonder of gentlemen than ladies, I perceive. She wouldn't be a
true female, though, if she wasn't."
Miss Erminie, in a paroxysm of delight, immediately buried her "long,
aristocratic, white fingers" in papa's thick burnished locks, with
variations of pulling his whiskers and mustache and then tenderly
kissing the above hirsute appendages to make them well again. And papa,
like all other young papas, looked, as if he thought her the most
wonderful baby that ever lived, and danced her up and down until she
forgot all sense of etiquette and propriety, and fairly screamed with
delight.
"Now, nurse, take Miss Minnie," he said, rising at last, and laughingly
shaking back his thick, fair hair. "Come, Minnie, be good now; papa must
go."
Still crowing as if she considered she had done something rather
extraordinary than otherwise, Miss Minnie allowed herself to be taken by
the nurse, and saw papa and mamma, and the little lady in velvet and
diamonds, smile a good-bye, and turn to leave the room.
"Foolish little wife," said Lord Villiers, laughing, as he saw Lady
Maude cast a "longing, lingering look behind" at her heart's treasure,
"can you not even tear yourself away from your darling for a few hours,
without straining your eyes to catch a last glimpse?"
"I know it is foolish," said Lady Maude, half-apologetically, yet still
keeping her yearning eyes fixed on little Erminie; "but I feel so
strangely about leaving her tonight. You will be sure to take good care
of her, Martha?"
"Sartin, my lady," responded Martha, rather offended at their want of
trust in her care.
"Now, Maude," said Lord Villiers, amused at her still-apparent anxiety.
Half-laughing, half-reluctant, she allowed herself to be drawn from the
room, and saw the door close between her and her child.
Down in the spacious drawing-room, Lady Maude soon found herself fully
occupied in receiving the guests, who began to arrive thick and fast.
But this did not remove her strange anxiety concerning Erminie; and
about an hour after, she stole away for a moment to pay a hurried visit
to the nursery.
All was calm and peaceful there. Little Erminie lay asleep once more in
her crib, and Martha sat dozing in her rocking-chair. Half ashamed of
her groundless fears, Lady Maude lightly kissed her sleeping infant and
hurried away. Little did she dream how many suns would rise and set--how
many years would come and go--before they two should meet again.
The night in mirth and music was passing on, and the hour of midnight
approached.
The Duchess of B., Earl De Courcy, and Lady Maude were standing
conversing together, when, as if struck by a sudden thought, the duchess
exclaimed:
"Oh! by the way, Lady Maude, do you recollect the strange voice that
interrupted the ceremony the night you were married? Have you ever
discovered who that was?"
Both Lady Maude and the earl grew pale.
"Never! The whole affair has been wrapped in mystery ever since," said
Lady Maude, with a slight shudder.
"Dear me, how frightened I was that night!" said the duchess, arranging
her bracelets. "It was quite dreadful; the most mysterious thing--just
like a ghost, or something in a play."
The duchess broke off suddenly and listened, as the great hall-clock
tolled the hour of twelve.
And just as the last stroke died away, that same terrific voice they had
heard years before pealed through the spacious room like the deep
tolling of a death-bell.
"Two years ago this night a legal murder was committed, and now the hour
of retribution is at hand. The sins of the father shall be visited upon
the children, and the children's children, even to the third and fourth
generations. Woe to all the house of De Courcy."
As if the angel of death had suddenly descended in their midst, every
face blanched, and every heart stood still with nameless horror. For one
moment the silence of the grave reigned, then a wild, piercing shriek
was heard through the house, and the nurse Martha, with terror-blanched
face, and uplifted arms, rushed into the midst of the assembled guests,
screaming:
"Oh, Miss Minnie! Miss Minnie! Miss Minnie!"
"Oh, God! my child!" came from the white lips of Lady Maude, in a voice
that those who heard never forgot, as she fled from the room, up the
long staircase, and into the nursery.
But the crib was empty; the babe was gone.
The wild, wild shriek of a mother's woe resounded through the house, and
Lady Maude fell in a deadly swoon on the floor.
And when Lord Villiers--his own noble face white and set with
unutterable anguish--burst into the room, he found her lying cold and
lifeless on the floor.
* * * * *
Meantime, some of the most self-possessed of the guests had assembled
round Martha, in order to extract from her, if possible, what had
happened.
But half insane with terror already, the continuous screaming of the
frightened ladies completely drove every remaining gleam of sense out of
her head, and her words were so wild and incoherent, that but little
could be made out of them. It appeared from what she said, that she had
been sitting half asleep in her chair, with her little charge wholly
asleep in the cradle beside her, when suddenly a tall, dark shadow
seemed to obscure the light in the room; and looking up with a start of
terror, she beheld the most awful monster--whether man, or woman, or
demon, she could not tell--in the act of snatching little Erminie from
the cradle, and flying from the room. Frozen with horror, she had
remained in her seat unable to move, until at last, fully conscious of
what had taken place, she had fled screaming down-stairs. And that was
all she could tell. In vain they questioned and cross-questioned; they
could obtain nothing further from the terrified Martha, and only
succeeded in driving the few remaining wits she had, out of her head.
Lord Villiers, leaving his still-senseless wife in the care of her maid,
with a face that seemed turned to marble, gave orders to have the house,
the grounds, the whole of London, if necessary, ransacked in search of
the abductor.
But there was one who sat bowed, collapsed, shuddering in his seat, who
recognized that voice, and knew what those awful words meant; and that
one was Earl De Courcy.
"She has murdered her! she has murdered her!" was the cry that seemed
rending his very heart with horror and despair.