WOMAN'S HATE.
"Oh! woman wronged can cherish hate
More deep and dark than manhood may;
And when the mockery of fate
Hath left revenge her chosen way,
Then all the wrongs which time hath nursed
Upon her spoiler's head shall burst,
And all her grief, and woe, and pain,
Burn fiercely on his heart and brain."
--WHITTIER.
Maddened, despairing, blaspheming, cursing earth and heaven, God and
man, hating life, and sunshine, and the world, the wretched gipsy queen
had fled from those who gathered around her on that morning full of woe,
and fled far away, she neither knew nor cared whither.
She sped along through lanes, streets, and crowded thoroughfares, seeing
nothing, hearing nothing, conscious of nothing but her own maddening
wrongs, glaring before her like a maniac, and dashing fiercely to the
ground with her clenched fist all those who, moved by pity, would have
stopped her. On, like a bolt from a bow, until the city seemed to fade
away, and she saw green fields, and pretty cottages, and waving trees,
and knew that she had left London behind her.
Night came on before she thought of stopping for a single instant to
rest. She had walked far that day; her feet were bleeding and blistered;
for nearly three days she had touched nothing but cold water, yet her
iron frame was unsubdued--she felt no weariness, no faintness, no
hunger. The indomitable spirit within, sustained her. She thought of
nothing, cared for nothing, but revenge; and for that her very soul was
crying out with a longing--a hunger that nothing could appease. She
dared not stop for one moment to think; she felt she would go mad if she
did; so she hurried on and on, as if driven on by some fierce, inward
power, against which it was useless to contend.
How the night passed, how the morning came, how she found herself in the
peaceful depths of the forest, she never could tell. How, ere that sun
set, she found herself with her tribe, lying prostrate on the cold
ground, conscious, like one in the most frightful nightmare, of what was
passing around her, yet unable to comprehend what it meant--all was
vague and unreal still. Past, and present, and future, all were mingled
together in one dark, dreadful chaos, of which nothing was real but the
dull, muffled pain at her heart, and the word revenge, that kept ever
dancing in letters of blood-red flame before her hot, scorching eyes.
She was conscious, in a lost, dreamy sort of way, that suns rose and
set, and the insufferable light departed, and the dark, cool night came
again and again; of seeing anxious eyes bent on her, and hearing hushed
voices and subdued footfalls, and dusky, troubled faces stooping over
her; but, like all the rest, it was a mocking unreality. The first shock
of the blow had crushed and stunned her, numbing the sense of pain, and
leaving nothing but the heavy throbbing aching at her strong, fierce
heart. The woman of mighty frame, and fierce, stormy passions, lay
there, motionless--stricken to the dust.
And then this departed, and another mood came.
One by one the broken links of memory returned, and then all other
feelings were submerged and lost in a strong, deadly, burning desire of
revenge--a revenge as fierce and undying as that of a tigress robbed of
her cubs--a revenge as strong and unconquerable as the heart that bore
it. With it came the recollection of his child; and drawing from her
bosom the packet he had given her, she read (for gipsy as she was she
could read) the woman's address. There were two motives to preserve
life; and, like a lioness rousing herself from a lethargy, the gypsy
queen arose, and resolutely set her face to the task. One determination
she made, never to lose sight of him whom she hated, until her revenge
was satiated. For she could wait--there would be no sudden stabbing or
killing; she did not believe in such vengeance as that--vengeance that
tortures its victim but for a moment. Revenge might be slow, but it
would be sure--she would hunt him, pursue him, torture him, until life
was worse than death, until he would look upon death as a mercy; then
he would have felt a tithe of the misery he had made her endure.
Another determination was, to leave her son's child with the tribe until
such time as she should again claim it. She knew it would be well cared
for with them, for they all loved their queen. And taking with her a lad
whom she could trust, she left them one morning, and started for the
child.
Leaving the gypsy youth some miles from the place, she approached the
cottage, which was opened by the widow herself, who looked considerably
startled by her dark, stern visitor. In the briefest possible terms,
Ketura made known her errand, and imperiously demanded the child.
The woman, a mild, gentle-looking person, seemed grieved and troubled,
and began something about her affection for the little one, and her hope
that it would not be taken away.
"I want the child!--bring it here!" broke in the gipsy, with a
fiercely-impatient gesture.
The woman, terrified into silence by her dark, imperious visitor went to
the door and called:
"Ray, Ray!"
"Here, Susan," answered a spirited young voice; and, with a gleeful
laugh, a bright little fellow of three years bounded into the room,
dragging after him, by the collar, a huge, savage-looking bulldog, who
snapped fiercely at his captor.
The woman Susan uttered a scream, and fled from the dog to the other
side of the room.
"I caught him, Susan, and pulled him in! He can't bite me!" said the
little fellow, triumphantly, his black eyes flashing with the
consciousness of victory. Then, catching sight of the stranger, he
stopped, and stared at her in silent wonder.
"He does beat all I ever seen--he bean't afeerd o' nothin'," said the
woman, half-apologetically. "It be no fault o' mine, mistress; he will
ha'e his own way, spite o' all I can say."
The gypsy fixed her piercing eyes keenly upon him, and started to behold
the living counterpart of her own son when at the same age. There was
the same clear olive complexion, with a warm, healthy flush on the
cheeks and lips; the same bold, bright-black eyes, fringed by long
silken lashes; the same high, noble brow; the same daring, undaunted,
fearless spirit, flashing already in his young eyes. Her hard face
softened for an instant; but when she saw the thick, curling black hair
clustering round his head; noted the small, aristocratically fastidious
mouth, the long, delicate hand, she knew he must have inherited them
from his mother--and she grew dark and stern again. His smile, too, that
lit up his beautiful face, and softened its dazzling splendor, was not
his father's; but still he was sufficiently like him to bring a last ray
of human feeling back to her iron heart.
"Little boy, come here," she said, holding out her hand.
Any other child would have been frightened by her odd dress, her harsh
voice, and darkly-gleaming face; but he was not. It might be that, child
as he was, he had an inherent liking for strength and power; or it might
have been his kindred blood that drew him to her--for he fearlessly went
over, put his hand in hers, and looked up in her face.
"What is your name?" she said, in a softer voice, as she parted his
thick, silky curls, and looked down into the dark splendor of his eyes.
"Raymond Germaine," was his answer.
The gypsy looked at Susan.
"His father's name was Germaine," the woman hastened to explain, "and I
called him Raymond because I saw R. G. on his father's handkerchief; and
I thought maybe it might have been that."
"Very good. Will you come with me, Raymond?"
"If Susan lets me," answered the boy, looking at his foster-mother.
"She will let you," said the gipsy, calmly. "Get him ready instantly. I
have no time to lose."
The woman, though looking deeply grieved and sorry, did not hesitate to
obey, for there was something in the age of Ketura that might have made
a bolder woman yield. So she dressed little Raymond in silence, made up
the rest of his clothing in a bundle, kissed him, and said good-by amid
many tears and sobs, and saw him depart with Ketura.
"Let me carry you--we have a long way to go," said the gipsy, stooping
to lift him in her strong arms.
"I don't want to be carried. I'll walk," said Master Ray, kicking
manfully.
The gipsy smiled a hard, grim smile.
"His father's spirit," she muttered. "I like it. We'll see how long he
will hold out."
For nearly an hour the little hero trudged sturdily along, but at the
end of that time his steps began to grow slow and weary.
"Ain't we most there?" he said, looking ruefully down the long muddy
road.
"No; we're a long way off. You had better let me carry you."
With a somewhat sleepy look of mortification, Master Ray, permitted his
grandmother to lift him up; and scarcely had she taken him in her arms,
before his curly head dropped heavily on her shoulder, and he was fast
asleep.
With the approach of night, feeling somewhat fatigued and footsore
herself, she overtook our friend Mr. Harkins, who, as he related to Mr.
Toosypegs, "took 'er hin," and brought her to his own house, where
"Missis 'Arkins" regaled young Mr. Germaine with a supper of bread and
milk, to which that small youth did ample justice.
Another hour brought her to the place where the gipsy boy was waiting,
and to his care she consigned her still-sleeping grandson, with many
injunctions that he was to be taken the best care of. These commands
were, however, unnecessary; for, looking upon the sleeping child as the
future king of his tribe, the lad bore him along as reverentially as
though he were a prince of the blood-royal.
Then the gipsy queen, Ketura, giving up all other thoughts but that of
vengeance, turned her steps in the direction of London, where, by
fortune-telling, and the other arts of her people, she could live and
never lose sight of her deadly foe.
Everything concerning the De Courcys she learned. She heard of the
marriage of Lord Villiers to Lady Maude Percy; and on the night of the
wedding she had entered, unobserved by all, in the bustle, and, screened
from view behind a side-door, she had uttered the words that had thrown
the whole assembly into such dismay. Then, knowing what must be the
consequence, she had fled instantly, and was far from danger ere the
terrified guests had recovered sufficient presence of mind to begin the
search.
How after that she haunted, harassed, and followed the earl, is
well-known to the reader, and the success of this course was sufficient
even to satisfy her, implacable as she was. She saw that life was
beginning to be slow torture to him--that his dread of her was amounting
to a monomania with him; and still she pursued him, like some awful
nightmare, wherever he went, keeping him still in view.
With the birth of little Erminie, she saw a still more exquisite torture
in store for him. Her very soul bounded with the thought of the
life-long misery she might heap upon him through the means of this
child, whom she had heard he idolized. From the first moment she had
heard of its birth, her determination was to steal it--to make 'way with
it--murder it--anything--she did not care what, only something to make
him feel what she had felt. She had been, for a time, delirious, when
she first heard of her son's death: but that grief lasted but for a
short time; and then she rejoiced--yes, actually rejoiced--that he was
dead and free from all future earthly misery. Death would have been to
her a relief, had she not been determined to live for revenge. She had
lost a child--so should they; and then, perhaps, they would be able to
comprehend the wrong they had made her suffer.
But in spite of all her attempts, a year passed and she had found no
means of carrying this threat into execution. The baby was so seldom
taken out, and then always in a carriage with its mother and the nurse,
that it was impossible to think of obtaining it. To enter the house,
except on the occasion of a ball, or party, when servants and all would
be busily occupied, was not to be thought of, either. But on the night
of the abduction, hearing of the party to be given at the mansion, and
remembering that it was the anniversary of her son's death, she had been
wrought up to a perfect frenzy of madness, and, resolved to obtain the
child, even at the cost of her life.
Toward midnight, she had cautiously entered, thinking all were most
likely to be in the drawing-rooms at that hour, and having previously
heard from the servants, by apparently careless questions, where the
nursery was situated, bent her steps in that direction. Pausing at the
door, which was ajar, she had glanced through, and beheld child and
nurse both asleep.
To steal cautiously in, snatch up the child, muffle it so tightly in her
cloak that if it cried it could not be heard, and fly down the
staircase, was but the work of an instant. Pausing, for an instant,
before the door of the grand salon, in her fleet descent, she had boldly
uttered her denunciation, and then, with the speed of the wind, had
flown through the long hall, out of the door, and away through the wind
and sleet, as if pursued by the arch-demon himself.
When she paused, at last, from exhaustion, she was on London Bridge.
Darkly came back the memory of the night, just two years before, when,
with deadly despair in her heart, she had stood in that self-same spot,
on the point of committing self-murder. With a fierce impulse, she
opened her cloak and lifted the half-smothered infant high above her
head, to dash it into the dark waters below. For one moment she held it
poised in the air, and then she drew it back.
"No," she said, with a fiendish smile; "it will be a greater revenge to
let it live--to let it grow up a tainted, corrupted, miserable outcast;
and then, when spurned alike by God and man, present it to them as their
child. Ha! ha! ha! that _will_ be revenge indeed! Live, pretty
one--live! You are far too precious to die yet."
Awakened from her sound sleep by the unusual and unpleasant sensation of
the bitter March storm beating in her face, little Erminie began to cry.
Wrapping it once more in her thick mantle, the gipsy, knowing there was
no time to lose, fled away in the direction of a low house in St. Giles,
where, with others of her tribe, she had often been, and the proprietor
of which was a gipsy himself, and a member of her own tribe. Here, safe
from all pursuit, she could stay with the child until the first heat of
the search was past, and then--then to begin her tortures once more.
Little Erminie grieved without ceasing for "mamma," at first, and seemed
almost to know the difference between the miserable den wherein she was
now located and the princely home she had left. It was not in any heart,
however hard, to dislike the lovely infant; and much as Ketura hated the
race from which she sprung, she really pitied the little, gentle,
helpless babe. So, from two motives--one a feeling of commiseration for
the child, and the other a fierce, demoniacal desire that she should
live to be the instrument of her vengeance--she procured a nurse for
little Erminie, a woman a shade better than the rest of her class, who
had lately lost a child of her own; and owing to her care, little
Erminie lived. Lived--but for what fate?