Tried for Her Life Part 11

"But how was that? Your ancestress married a gentleman?"

"Yes, she married a gentleman, and her tribe discarded her when she deserted them. They would have discarded her all the same, if she had married a king who was not of her race. She went abroad with her husband, and visited, I have heard, the four quarters of the globe. She returned after two years, bringing with her a dark infant boy. She was about to go with her husband on another long, long voyage. He refused to allow her to take her child, but said, for the little lad's own sake, he must be left at nurse in England. The only point she could get him to yield was this, that the child should be left with her tribe until it should be five years old, when they would reclaim it."

"That was a very strange disposition for a gentleman to make of his son."

"It would have been, if he had cared a snap for his son, which he didn't, as after events proved. The gipsy wife sought out her own old grandmother, who was a famous doctress of the tribe. In the beldame's care she left the babe. Then with her husband she slipped away to sea, and neither the one nor the other was ever seen or heard of afterwards.

The boy, deserted by his father and his mother, grew up a poor degraded little half-breed among the gipsies, scarcely tolerated by them, but loved and petted by his foster-mother, whose great power in her tribe only sufficed for his protection. When at length the old crone lay upon her death-bed, she called the youth to her side, and placed in his hand the silver casket, saying:

"Take it, my lad. It was put in my hands by your mother, when she left you with me. Take it, then; guard it as the most sacred treasure of your life; for it may bring you to wealth and honor yet.'

"And then she died, and the lad, with the casket for his only fortune, left the tribe, and took to the road alone, mending pots and kettles for a living, often suffering hunger and cold, but never, under any stress of poverty, parting with the silver casket." The girl paused for a moment and then resumed:

"But poverty never yet prevented a gipsy from taking a mate. He found one in the daughter of another travelling tinker, poorer, if possible, than himself. She lived only long enough to bring him one child, and then died, it is said, from the hards.h.i.+ps of her life."

"That was miserable," sighed Sybil.

"It was so miserable that her widowed husband never tried marriage any more; but he brought up his son to his own trade--that of a travelling tinker. And when the time came for him to give up the ghost, he placed the casket in the hand of the boy, saying:

"Your mother died of want, rather than let it be sold for a sum that might have saved her life and made her comfortable; because she said that in it was her child's destiny. Keep it and guard it as you would guard your heart's blood.

"And so the old tinker died, and the young tramp, with the heirloom in his possession, set out to seek his fortunes.

"But he did not go upon the quest alone. Like most improvident young tramps, he took a mate. His wife was my mother. I remember both my parents while they were yet young and handsome, and very happy despite their poverty. My father--But let me stop! Before I go any further, I wish to ask you a question."

"Ask it."

"Do you believe that any one may become so maddened with causeless jealousy as to commit a crime?"

"I not only believe it, but know it."

"Then I will go on. My father doted on my mother--just doted on her! But my poor mother had a friend and benefactor, of whom my father grew insanely, furiously, but causelessly jealous.

"One day he did a cruel murder, and found out when it was too late that he had slain the father of his wife, who, in coming after her at all was only looking to the interests of his poor, unowned daughter. Ah! a volume might be written on that tragedy; but let it pa.s.s! My mother died of grief. But long ere that my father had fled the country an outlaw and the companion of outlaws.

"Once his still absorbing love for his wife drew him back to England, at the imminent risk of his life. His wife was dead, and his daughter was a little wretched child, knocked about among beggars and tramps, and in extreme danger of that last evil--that last, and worst evil that could have befallen her--being taken care of by the paris.h.!.+"

"That is a severe sarcasm," said Sybil, rebukingly.

"Is it? If ever you are free again, lady, visit the most dest.i.tute homes in the world, and then the best alms-houses in your reach, and find out for yourself whether it is not better to die a free beggar than to live an imprisoned pauper. The manner in which Workhouse Charity 'whips the devil round the stump' by satisfying its conscience without benefiting its object, is one of the funniest jokes, as well as one of the most curious subjects of study, that can be found in social life."

"I am sorry to hear you say so; but go on with your story."

"My father, bowed down with remorse for his crime, and grief for the loss of his wife, found yet something to live for in me, his only child.

He brought me away to the coast of France, where he and his pals were carrying on a very successful business in the smuggling line.

"They run goods to and fro between the French and English sh.o.r.es of the Channel. One day he was fatally wounded in an encounter with the Excise officers, near St. Margaret's. He was taken prisoner, but all the other members of his band escaped. When he knew he was dying, he sent for me, and the officers were kind enough to have me looked up.

"I was then wandering about the village in a state of dest.i.tution, in which I must have perished but for the kindness of the poorest among the poor, who shared their crusts and their pallets with me.

"I was taken to my father, who was dying in the Dover jail. He gave me the silver casket, telling me what a sacred heirloom it was, and how he had kept it through every temptation to part with it, and that I must guard it as the most precious jewel of my life; for that one day it might be the means of making me a lady."

"I didn't say 'Bosh' to my dying father; but I have said 'Bosh' ever since, every time I have thought of that bauble! It never did any good to my father, or my grandfather, and it is not likely to relent in my favor. Beyond the fact that it proves my great-grandmother, the Gipsy Queen, to have been an honest woman, I don't see any use it is to her descendants."

"I have it still, as I told you before; because from the hour of my poor father's death, I have never known a want, or felt a temptation to part with it. I was adopted by his band, who have always treated me like a princess."

"But I have a sort of spite against it, for all that, for it never yet did what was expected of it; and so, the first time I find myself hungry without the means of procuring food, I will sell the silver casket to the first purchaser I can find; and the first time I want to light a candle and can't find any other piece of paper, I will burn the marriage license."

"Don't you do it!" exclaimed Sybil, eagerly, earnestly; "burn, sell anything you possess sooner! I believe that that casket has been preserved through three generations for your sake, _yours_! And if, as your poor father hinted, it does not make you a lady,--for nothing but nature and education can make one a lady, you know--it will be sure to make you a woman of wealth and position!"

"Bos.h.!.+ I _will_ say 'bosh' to you; for you are not my father," sneered the girl.

"Suppose I were able to furnish you with the key to the lock of this sealed family history of yours? Suppose I could point out to you the place where Philip Dewberry, as you called him, carried his gipsy wife Gentiliska; where she died without other children; and where he also subsequently died without other heirs?" inquired Sybil.

"If you could do that, you could do wonders!" laughed the girl incredulously.

"I believe I can do all this! I believe I can give you the sequel and complement of the family history you have told me!" said Sybil seriously.

"How is it possible? You can know nothing of it. I am English, you are American. The ocean divides our countries, and the century divides that past history from the present."

"Divides and _unites_!" said Sybil.

"But how is that?"

"Gentiliska, did you never think of connecting the two circ.u.mstances; your race of Dewberrys searching for the estate to which they had a claim, but no clue; and this manor of the Dubarrys, waiting in abeyance for the heir who never comes to claim it?"

"_No!_" exclaimed the girl in some excitement, "I never did! But the coincidence is striking too. Only--one name is Dubarry and the other is Dewberry. Bosh, I say again! One name is even French, and the other is Englis.h.!.+ They are not even of the same nation; how can they have any connection with each other?"

"My dear; don't you know how easy it is to corrupt a name? Don't you see how inevitably the aristocratic French name Dubarry would be corrupted by ignorant people into the humble English name Dewberry?"

"Yes; but I never thought of that before."

"Now, will you let me look at that license?"

"I don't care. Only whenever I put my hands upon it, I am tempted to tear it up."

"Do nothing of the sort; guard it as you would guard your precious eyes.

And now let me see it."

CHAPTER VII.

GENTILISKA DUBARRY.

"And Iska, And Iska, And Iska's a lady."

The girl went to a little trunk, unlocked it, and brought out the small silver casket. She touched a spring and the top flew open revealing a packet of papers, from which she selected one brown with age, and worn almost into squares by folding. She laid it before Sybil, who carefully unfolded it, and scrutinized it.