THE GYPSY.
Mr. and Mrs. Covington remained for a week after Hilda was installed
with the Purcells in their new home. To her the house with its garden
and pretty pony-carriage and pony were nothing remarkable, but Netta's
enjoyment in all these things amused her, and the thought that she, too,
would some day be able to talk and enjoy life as her companion did,
greatly raised her spirits. Her father and mother were delighted at
hearing her merry laugh mingled with that of Netta as they walked
together in the garden, and they went home with lighter hearts and more
hopeful spirits than they had felt since the child's illness began.
Every three or four months--for a journey to Hanover was a longer and
more serious business in 1843 than it is at present--they went over to
spend a week there. There could be no doubt from the first that the
change was most beneficial to Hilda. Her cheeks regained their color and
her limbs their firmness. She lost the dull look and the apathy to
whatever was going on around her that had before distressed them. She
progressed very rapidly in her study of German, and at the end of six
months her conversations with Netta were entirely carried on in that
language. She had made some little progress in reading from her
companion's lips and had just entered at Herr Menzel's academy. She
could now take long walks with Netta, and every afternoon, or, as summer
came on, every evening, they drove together in the pony-chaise. With
renewed health and strength there had been some slight improvement in
her hearing. She could now faintly distinguish any loud sounds, such as
those of the band of a regiment marching past her or a sudden peal of
bells.
"I think that we shall make an eventual cure," Dr. Hartwig said. "It
will be slow, and possibly her hearing may never be absolutely good; but
at least we may hope that she may be able to eventually hear as well as
nine people out of ten."
In another year she could, indeed, though with difficulty, hear voices,
and when she had been at Hanover three years her cure was almost
complete, and she now went every morning to school to learn French and
music. She herself was quite content to remain there. She was very happy
in her life and surroundings, and could now read with the greatest
facility from the lips, and indeed preferred watching a speaker's mouth
to listening to the voice. It was a source of endless amusement to her
that she could, as she and Netta walked through the streets, read scraps
of conversation between persons on the other side of the street or
passing in carriages.
Another six months and both the doctor and Professor Menzel said that
they could do nothing more for her. She was still somewhat hard of
hearing; but not enough so to be noticeable; while she could with her
eyes follow the most rapid speaker, and the Professor expressed his
regret that so excellent an example of the benefit of his system should
not be in circumstances that would compel her to make a living by
becoming a teacher in it. Netta was now a paid assistant at the
institution.
The end of what had been a very happy time to Hilda came abruptly and
sadly, for three weeks before the date when her parents were to come
over to take her home, Miss Purcell, on opening a letter that came just
as they had finished breakfast, said, after sitting silent for a few
minutes, "You need not put on your things, Hilda; you cannot go to
school this morning; I have some bad news, dear--very bad news."
The tone of voice in which she spoke, even more than the words, sent a
chill into the girl's heart.
"What is it, aunt?" she said, for she had from the first used the same
term as Netta in addressing her.
"Your father has had a serious illness, my dear--a very, very serious
and sudden illness, and your mother wishes you to go home at once."
Hilda looked at her with frightened, questioning eyes, while every
vestige of color left her cheeks. "Is he--is he----" she asked.
"Here is an inclosure for you," Miss Purcell said, as she got up, and
taking Hilda's hand in one of hers drew her with the other arm close to
her; "your mother wrote to me that I might prepare you a little before
giving it to you. A terrible misfortune has happened. Your dear father
is dead. He died suddenly of an affection of the heart."
"Oh, no, no; it cannot be!" Hilda cried.
"It is true, my dear. God has taken him. You must be strong and brave,
dear, for your mother's sake."
"Oh, my poor mother, my poor mother!" Hilda cried, bursting into a
sudden flood of tears, "what will she do!"
It was not until some time afterwards that she was sufficiently composed
to read her mother's letter, which caused her tears to flow afresh.
After giving the details of her father's death, it went on:
"I have written to your uncle, General Mathieson, who is, I know,
appointed one of the trustees, and is joined with me as your guardian. I
have asked him to find and send over a courier to fetch you home, and no
doubt he will arrive a day or two after you receive this letter. So
please get everything ready to start at once, when he comes."
Two days later General Mathieson himself arrived, accompanied by a
courier. It was a great comfort to Hilda that her uncle had come for her
instead of a stranger.
"It is very kind of you to come yourself, uncle," she said as she threw
herself crying into his arms.
"Of course I should come, dear," he said. "Who should fetch you except
your uncle? I had to bring a courier with me, for I don't understand any
of their languages, and he will take all trouble off my hands. Now let
me look at your face." It was a pale, sad little face that was lifted
up, but two days of sorrow had not obliterated the signs of health and
well-being.
"Whiter than it ought to be," he said, "but clear and healthy, and very
different from what it was when I saw you before you came out. You have
grown wonderfully, child. Really, I should hardly have known you again."
And so he kept on for two or three minutes, to allow her to recover
herself.
"Now, dear, you must take me in and introduce me to your kind friends
here."
Hilda led the way into the sitting room.
"I have heard so much of you and your niece, Miss Purcell," he said as
he shook hands with her, "that I do do not feel that you are a stranger.
You certainly seem to have worked wonders between you for my niece, and
I must own that in the first place I thought it a mistake her being here
by herself, for I had no belief that either her hearing would be
restored or that she would ever be able to follow what people were
saying by only staring at their lips."
"Yes, indeed, Hanover has agreed with her, sir, and it is only a small
part of the credit that is due to us."
"I must differ from you entirely, madam. If she had not been perfectly
happy here with you, she would never have got on as she has done."
"Have you any luggage, sir? Of course you will stay with us to-night."
"No, thank you, Miss Purcell. We have already been to the Kaiserhof, and
long before this my courier will have taken rooms and made every
preparation for me. You see, I am accustomed to smoke at all times, and
could not think of scenting a house, solely inhabited by ladies, with
tobacco. Now, if you will excuse me, I will ask Hilda to put on her
bonnet and take a stroll with me."
"I shall be very glad for her to do so. It is just getting cool and
pleasant for walking, and half an hour in the fresh air will do her
good."
It was an hour before they returned. General Mathieson had gently told
her all there was to tell of her father's death, and turning from that
he spoke of her mother, and how nobly she was bearing her troubles, and
erelong her tears, which had burst out anew, flowed more quietly, and
she felt comforted. Presently she said suddenly:
"What is going to be done here, uncle? I have been thinking over that
ever since it was settled that I was to come home next month, and I am
sure that, although she has said nothing about it, Miss Purcell has felt
the change that is coming. She said the other day, 'I shall not go back
to the apartments where you found us, Hilda. You see, we are a great
deal better off than we were before. In the first place I have had
nothing whatever to spend, and during the four years the ridiculously
liberal sum paid to Netta and myself has been all laid aside and has
mounted up to six hundred pounds. My pension of eighty pounds a year has
also accumulated, with the exception of a small sum required for our
clothes, so that in fact I have nearly a thousand pounds laid by. Netta
is earning thirty pounds a year at the Institute; with that and my
pension and the interest on money saved we shall get on very
comfortably.' I should not like, uncle, to think of them in a little
stuffy place in the town. Having a nice garden and everything
comfortable has done a great deal for Miss Purcell. Netta told me that
she was very delicate before, and that she is quite a different woman
since she came out here from the town. You cannot tell how kind she has
always been. If I had been her own child, she could not have been more
loving. In fact, no one could have told by her manner that she was not
my mother and Netta my sister."
"Yes, dear, I ran down to your mother before starting to fetch you to
help in the arrangements, and she spoke about Miss Purcell. Under
ordinary circumstances, of course, at the end of the four years that you
have been here the house would be given up and she would, as you say, go
into a much smaller place; but your mother does not consider that these
are ordinary circumstances, and thinks that her care and kindness have
had quite as much to do with the improvement in your health as has the
doctor. Of course we had no time to come to any definite plan, but she
has settled that things are to go on here exactly as at present, except
that your friend Netta will not be paid for acting as companion to you.
I am to tell Miss Purcell that with that exception everything is to go
on as before, and that your mother will need a change, and will probably
come out here in a month or so for some time."
"Does she really mean that, uncle?"
"Certainly, and the idea is an excellent one. After such a shock as she
has had an entire change of scene will be most valuable; and as she
knows Miss Purcell well, and you like the place very much, I don't think
that any better plan could be hit upon. I dare say she will stay here
two or three months, and you can continue your studies. At the end of
that time I have no doubt some plan that will give satisfaction to all
parties will be hit upon."
Hilda returned to Hanover with her mother a month later. At the end of
three months Mrs. Covington bought the house and presented the deeds to
Miss Purcell, who had known nothing whatever of her intentions.
"I could not think of accepting it," she exclaimed.
"But you cannot help accepting it, dear Miss Purcell; here are the deeds
in your name. The house will be rather large for you at present, but in
a few years, indeed in two or three years, Netta could begin to take a
few pupils. As soon as she is ready to do so I shall, of course, mention
it among my friends, and be able to send a few children, whose parents
would be ready to pay well to have them taught this wonderful method of
brightening their lives, which is at present quite unknown in England."
So it was arranged; but a few months after her return to England Mrs.
Covington, who had never altogether recovered from the shock of her
husband's death, died after a short illness, and Hilda became an inmate
of her uncle's house. Since that time three years had elapsed, and Hilda
was now eighteen, and Netta was over for a two months' visit.
The scene in the grounds of Lady Moulton's charming villa at Richmond, a
fortnight after the conversation between that lady and Hilda, was a gay
one. Everyone in society had been invited and there were but few
refusals; the weather was lovely, and all agreed that even at Ascot the
costumes were not brighter or more varied.
Although the fete was especially on behalf of a charity, no admission
fees were charged to guests, but everyone understood that it would be
his duty to lay out money at the various picturesque tents scattered
about under the trees. In these were all the most popular entertainers
of the day. In one pavilion John Parry gave a short entertainment every
half-hour. In a larger one Mario, Grisi, Jenny Lind, and Alboni gave
short concerts, and high as were the prices of admission, there was
never a seat vacant. Conjurers had a tent, electro-biologists--then the
latest rage from the United States--held their seances, and at some
distance from the others Richardson's booth was in full swing. The
Grenadiers' band and a string band played alternately.
Not the least attraction to many was the gypsy tent erected at the edge
of a thick shrubbery, for it soon became rumored that the old gypsy
woman there was no ordinary impostor, but really possessed of
extraordinary powers of palmistry. Everything had been done to add to
the air of mystery pervading the place. Externally it was but a long,
narrow marquee. On entering, the inquirer was shown by an attendant to a
seat in an apartment carpeted in red, with black hangings and black
cloth lining the roof. From this hung a lamp, all other light being
excluded. As each visitor came out from the inner apartment the next in
order was shown in, and the heavy curtains shut off all sound of what
was passing. Here sat an apparently aged gypsy on an old stump of a
tree. A fire burned on the ground and a pot was suspended by a tripod
over it; a hood above this carried the smoke out of the tent. The
curtains here were red; the roof, as in the other compartment, black,
but sprinkled with gold and silver stars. A stool was placed for the
visitor close enough to the gypsy for the latter to examine her hand by
the light of two torches, which were fastened to a rough sapling stuck
in the ground.
Hilda possessed every advantage for making the most of the situation.
Owing to her intimacy with Lady Moulton, and her experience for a year
in the best London society, she knew all its gossip, while she had
gathered much more than others knew from the conversations both of the
dancers and the lookers-on.
The first to enter was a young man who had been laughingly challenged by
the lady he was walking with to go in and have his fortune told.
"Be seated, my son," the old woman said; "give me your hand and a piece
of money."
With a smile he handed her half a sovereign. She crossed his palm with
it and then proceeded attentively to examine the lines.
"A fair beginning," she said, "and then troubles and difficulties. Here
I see that, some three years back, there is the mark of blood; you won
distinction in war. Then there is a cross-mark which would show a
change. Some good fortune befell you. Then the lines darken. Things go
from bad to worse as they proceed. You took to a vice--cards or
horse-racing. Here are evil associates, but there is a white line that
runs through them. There is a girl somewhere, with fair hair and blue
eyes, who loves you, and whom you love, and whose happiness is imperiled
by this vice and these associates. Beyond, there is another cross-line
and signs of a conflict. What happens after will depend upon yourself.
Either the white line and the true love will prove too powerful for the
bad influences or these will end in ruin and--ah! sudden and violent
death. Your future, therefore, depends upon yourself, and it is for you
to say which influence must triumph. That is all."
Without a word he went out.
"You look pale, Mr. Desmond," the lady said when he rejoined her. "What
has she told you?"
"I would rather not tell you, Mrs. Markham," he said seriously. "I
thought it was going to be a joke, but it is very far from being one.
Either the woman is a witch or she knew all about me personally, which
is barely within the limits of possibility. At any rate she has given me
something to think of."
"I will try myself," the lady said; "it is very interesting."
"I should advise you not to," he said earnestly.
"Nonsense!" she laughed; "I have no superstitions. I will go in and hear
what she has to say." And leaving him, she entered the tent.
The gypsy examined her hand in silence. "I would rather not tell you
what I see," she said as she dropped the hand. "Oh, ridiculous!" the
lady exclaimed. "I have crossed your palm with gold, and I expect to get
my money's worth," and she held out her hand again.
The gypsy again examined it.
"You stand at the crossing of the ways. There are two men--one dark,
quiet, and earnest, who loves you. You love him, but not as he loves
you; but your line of life runs smoothly until the other line, that of a
brown man, becomes mixed up in it. He loves you too, with a hot,
passionate love that would soon fade. You had a letter from him a day or
two back. Last night, as he passed you in a dance, he whispered, 'I have
not had an answer,' and the next time he passed you, you replied, 'You
must give me another day or two.' Upon the answer you give the future of
your life will depend. Here is a broad, fair line, and here is a short,
jagged one, telling of terrible troubles and misery. It is for you to
decide which course is to be yours."
As she released her hold of the hand it dropped nerveless. The gypsy
poured out a glass of water from a jug by her side, but her visitor
waved it aside, and with a great effort rose to her feet, her face as
pale as death.
"My God!" she murmured to herself, "this woman is really a witch."
"They do not burn witches now," the gypsy said; "I only read what I see
on the palm. You cannot deny that what I have said is true. Stay a
moment and drink a glass of wine; you need it before you go out."
She took a bottle of wine from behind her seat, emptied the water on to
the earth, half filled a tumbler, and held it out. The frightened woman
felt that indeed she needed it before going out into the gay scene, and
tossed it off.
"Thank you!" she said. "Whoever you are, I thank you. You have read my
fate truly, and have helped me to decide it."
Desmond was waiting for her when she came out, but she passed him with a
gesture.
"You are right!" she said. "She is a witch indeed!"
Few other stories told were as tragic, but in nearly every case the
visitors retired puzzled at the knowledge the gypsy possessed of their
life and surroundings, and it soon became rumored that the old woman's
powers were something extraordinary, and the little ante-room was kept
filled with visitors waiting their turn for an audience. No one noticed
the long and frequent absences of Hilda Covington from the grounds. The
tent had been placed with its back hiding a small path through the
shrubbery. Through a peep-hole arranged in the curtain she was able to
see who was waiting, and each time before leaving said a few words as to
their lives which enabled Netta to support the character fairly. When
the last guest had departed and she joined Lady Moulton, she handed over
a bag containing nearly a hundred pounds.
"I have deducted five pounds for the gypsy," she said, "and eight pounds
for the hire of the tent and its fittings."
"That is at least five times as much as I expected, Hilda. I have heard
all sorts of marvelous stories of the power of your old woman. Several
people told me that she seemed to know all about them, and told them
things that they believed were only known to themselves. But how did she
get so much money?"
Hilda laughed. "I hear that they began with half-sovereigns, but as soon
as they heard of her real powers, they did not venture to present her
with anything less than a sovereign, and in a good many cases they gave
more--no doubt to propitiate her into giving them good fortunes. You
see, each visitor only had two or three minutes' interview, so that she
got through from twenty to thirty an hour; and as it lasted four hours
she did exceedingly well."
"But who is the gypsy, and where did you find her?"
"The gypsy has gone, and is doubtless by this time in some caravan or
gypsy tent. I do not think that you will ever find her again."
"I should have suspected that you played the gypsy yourself, Hilda, were
it not that I saw you half a dozen times."
"I have no skill in palmistry," the girl laughed, "and certainly have
not been in two places at once. I did my duty and heard Jenny Lind sing
and Parry play, though I own that I did not patronize Richardson's
booth."
"Well, it is extraordinary that this old woman should know the history
of such a number of people as went into her tent, few of whom she could
ever have heard of even by name, to say nothing of knowing them by
sight."
Several ladies called within the next few days, specially to inquire
from Lady Moulton about the gypsy.
"Everyone is talking about her," one said. "Certainly she told me
several things about the past that it was hardly possible that a woman
in her position could know. I have often heard that gypsies pick up
information from servants, or in the country from village gossip; but at
least a hundred people visited this woman's tent, and from what I hear
everyone was as astonished as I was myself at her knowledge of their
family matters. It is said that in some cases she went farther than
this, and told them things about the present known only to themselves
and two or three intimate friends. Some of them seemed to have been
quite seriously affected. I saw Mrs. Markham just after she had left the
tent, and she was as white as a sheet, and I know she drove away a few
minutes afterwards."
To all inquiries Lady Moulton simply replied:
"I know no more about the gypsy than you do. Miss Covington took the
entire management of the gypsy tent off my hands, saw to the tent being
erected, and engaged the gypsy. Where she picked her up I have no idea,
but I fancy that she must have got her from their encampment on Ham
Common. She turned the matter off when I asked her point-blank, and I
imagine that she must have given the old crone a promise not to let it
be known who she was. They are curious people, the gypsies, and for
aught I know may have an objection to any of the tribe going to a
gathering like ours to tell fortunes."
Some appeals were made to Hilda personally; but Lady Moulton had told
her the answer she had given, and taking her cue from it she was able to
so shape her replies that her questioners left her convinced that she
had really, while carrying out Lady Moulton's instructions, lighted on a
gypsy possessing some of the secrets of the almost forgotten science of
palmistry.