CHAPTER XLIV
THE GIPSY'S DREAM
It is a calm, clear night; a narrow crescent moon, low down on thehorizon, scarcely dims the radiance of those myriads of stars which gemthe entire sky. It is such a night as would have been chosen by theChaldean to read his destiny on the glittering page above his head--sucha night as compels us perforce to think of other matters than what weshall eat and what we shall drink--as brings startlingly to our mindsthe unsolved question, Which is Reality--the Material of to-day or theIdeal of to-morrow? Not a cloud obscures the diamond-sprinkled vaultabove; not a tree, not an undulation, varies the level plain extendingfar and wide below. Dim and indistinct, its monotonous surface presentsa vague idea of boundless space, the vastness of which is enhanced bythe silence that reigns around. Not a breath of air is stirring, not asound is heard save the lazy plash and ripple of the Danube, as itsteals away under its low swampy banks, sluggish and unseen. Yet thereis life breathing in the midst of this apparent solitude: human heartsbeating, with all their hopes and fears, and joys and sorrows, in thisisolated spot. Even here beauty pillows her head on the broad chest ofstrength; infancy nestles to the refuge of a mother's bosom; wearylabour lies prone and helpless, with relaxed muscles and limp, powerlesslimbs; youth dreams of love, and age of youth; and sleep spreads herwelcome mantle over the hardy tribe who have chosen this wild waste ofHungary for their lair.
It is long past midnight; their fires have been out for hours; theirtents are low and dusky, in colour almost like the plain on which theyare pitched; you might ride within twenty yards of it, and never knowyou were near a gipsy's encampment, for the Zingynie loves to beunobserved and secret in his movements; to wander here and there, withno man's leave and no man's knowledge; to come and go unmarked anduntrammelled as the wind that lifts the elf-locks from his brow. So hesleeps equally well under the coarse canvas of a tent or the roof of aclear cold sky; he pays no rent, he owns no master, and he believesthat, of all the inhabitants of earth, he alone is free.
And now a figure rises from amongst the low dusky tents, and comes outinto the light of the clear starry sky, and looks steadfastly towardsthe east as if watching for the dawn, and turns a fevered cheek to thesoft night air, as yet not fresh and cold enough to promise the approachof day. It is the figure of a woman past the prime of life, nay,verging upon age, but who retains all the majesty and some remains ofthe beauty which distinguished her in bygone days; who even now ownsnone of the decay of strength or infirmity of gait which usuallyaccompanies the advance of years, but who looks, as she always did, bornto command, and not yet incapable of enforcing obedience to her behests.It is none other than the Zingynie queen who prophesied the future ofVictor de Rohan when he was a laughing golden-haired child; whose mindis anxious and ill at ease for the sake of her darling now, and whodraws her hood further over her head, binds her crimson handkerchieftighter on her brows, and looks once more with anxious glance towardsthe sky, as she mutters--
"Three hours to dawn, and then six more till noon; and once, girl, thouwast light-footed and untiring as the deer. Girl!" and she laughs ashort, bitter laugh. "Well, no matter--girl, or woman, or aged crone,the heart is always the same; and I will save him--save him, for thesake of the strong arm and the fair, frank face that have beenmouldering for years in the grave!"
She is wandering back into the past now. Vivid and real as though ithad happened but yesterday, she recalls a scene that took place many along year ago in the streets of Pesth. She was a young, light-heartedmaiden then: the acknowledged beauty of her tribe, the swiftest runner,the most invincible pedestrian to be found of either sex in the boundsof Hungary. Not a little proud was she of both advantages, and it washard to say on which she plumed herself the most. In those days, as inmany others of its unhappy history, that country was seething withinternal faction and discontent; and the Zingynies, from their wanderinghabits, powers of endurance, and immunity from suspicion, wereconstantly chosen as the bearers of important despatches and the meansof communication between distant conspirators, whilst they werethemselves kept in utter ignorance of the valuable secrets with whichthey were entrusted.
The gipsy maiden had come up to Pesth on an errand of this nature allthe way from the Banat. Many a flat and weary mile it is; yet thoughshe had rested but seldom and partaken sparingly of food, the girl's eyewas as bright, her step as elastic, and her beauty as dazzling as whenshe first started on her journey. In such a town as the capital ofHungary she could not fail to attract attention and remark. Ere long,while she herself was feasting her curiosity with innocent delight onthe splendours of the shop windows and the many wonders of a city sointeresting to this denizen of the wilderness, she found herself thecentre of a gazing and somewhat turbulent crowd, whose murmurs ofapprobation at her beauty were not unmixed with jeers and even threatsof a more formidable description. Swabes were they mostly, andCroatians, who formed this disorderly mob; for your true Hungarian, ofwhatever rank, is far too much of a gentleman to mix himself up with astreet riot or vulgar brawl, save upon the greatest provocation. Therehad been discontent brewing for days amongst the lowest classes; theprice of bread had gone up, and there was a strong feeling abroadagainst the landholders, and what we should term in England theagricultural interest generally.
The mob soon recognised in the Zingynie maiden one of the messengers oftheir enemies. From taunts and foul abuse they proceeded to overt actsof insolence; and the handsome high-spirited girl found herself at bay,surrounded by savage faces, and rude, insulting tongues. Soon they beganto hustle and maltreat her, with cries of "Down with the gipsy!"--"Downwith the go-between of our tyrants!"--"To the stake with thefortune-teller!"--"To the Danube with the witch!" Imprudently she drewher long knife and flashed it in the faces of the foremost; for aninstant the curs gave back, but it was soon struck from her hand, andany immunity that her youth and beauty might have won from heroppressors was, by this ill-judged action, turned to more determinedviolence and aggression. Already they had pinioned her arms, and weredragging her towards the river--already she had given herself up forlost, when a lane was seen opening in the crowd, and a tall powerful mancame striding to her rescue, and, as he elbowed and jostled his waythrough her tormentors, asked authoritatively, "What was the matter, andhow they could dare thus to maltreat a young and beautiful girl?"
"She is a witch!" replied one ruffian who had hold of her by the wrist,"and we are going to put her in the Danube. _You_ are an aristocrat,and you shall keep her company!"
"Shall I?" replied the stranger, and in another instant the insolentSwabe, spitting out a mouthful of blood and a couple of front teeth,measured his length upon the pavement. The crowd began to retire, butthey were fierce and excited, and their numbers gave them confidence. Acomrade of the fallen ruffian advanced upon the champion with baredknife and scowling brow. Another of those straight left-handers,delivered flush from the shoulder, and he lay prostrate by his friend.The stranger had evidently received his fighting education in England,and the instructions of science had not been thrown away on thatmagnificent frame and those heavy muscular limbs. It was indeed no otherthan the last Count de Rohan, Victor's father, the associate of thePrince of Wales, the friend of Philip Egerton and Sir Harry Beverley:lastly, what was more to the purpose at the present juncture, the pupilof the famous Jackson. Ere long the intimidated mob ceased tointerfere, and the nobleman, conducting the frightened gipsy girl withas much deference as though she had been his equal in rank and station,never left her till he had placed her in his own carriage, and forwardedher, with three or four stout hussars as her escort, half-way back onher homeward journey. There is a little bit of romance safe locked upand hidden away somewhere in a corner of every woman's heart. What wasthe great Count de Rohan to the vagabond Zingynie maiden but a "brightparticular star," from which she must always remain at a hopeless andimmeasurable distance? Yet even now, though her hair is grey and herbrow is wri
nkled--though she has loved and suffered, and borne childrenand buried them, and wept and laughed, and hoped and feared, and gonethe round of earthly joys and earthly sorrows--the colour mounts to herwithered cheek, and the blood gathers warmer round her heart, when shethinks of that frank, handsome face, with its noble features and itsfearless eyes, and the kindly smile with which it bade her farewell.Therefore has she always felt a thrilling interest in all thatappertains to the Count de Rohan; therefore has she mourned him withmany a secret tear and many a hidden pang; therefore has she loved andcherished and watched over his child as though he had been her own,exhausting all her skill and all her superstition to prognosticate forhim a happy future--to ward off from him the evil that she reads toosurely in the stars will be his lot.
Once she has warned him--twice she has warned him--will the third timebe too late? She shudders to think how she has neglected him.To-morrow--nay, to-day (for it is long past midnight), is theanniversary of his birth, the festival of St. Hubert, and she would havepassed it over unnoticed, would have forgotten it, but for last night'sdream. The coming morning strikes chill to her very marrow as shethinks what a strange, wild, eerie dream it was.
She dreamed that she was sitting by the Danube; far, far away downyonder, where its broad yellow flood, washing the flat, fertile shoresof Moldavia, sweeps onward to the Black Sea, calm, strong, and not to bestemmed by mortal hand, like the stream of Time--like the course ofdestiny.
Strange voices whispered in her ears, mingled with the plash and rippleof the mighty river; voices that she could not recognise, yet of whichshe felt an uncomfortable consciousness that she had heard them before.It was early morning, the raw mist curled over the waters, and herhair--how was this?--once more black and glossy as the raven's wing, wasdank and dripping with dew. There was a babe, too, in her lap, and shefolded the child tighter to her bosom for warmth and comfort. Itnestled and smiled up in her face, though it was none of hers; no gipsyblood could be traced in those blue eyes and golden locks; it was DeRohan's heir: how came it here? She asked the question aloud, and thevoices answered all at once and confusedly, with an indistinct andrushing sound. Then they were silent, and the river plashed on.
She felt very lonely, and sang to the child for company a merry gipsysong. And the babe laughed and crowed, and leapt in her arms withdelight, and glided from her hands; and the waters closed over itsgolden head, and it was gone. Then the voices moaned and shrieked,still far away, dim and indistinct; and the river plashed sullenly on.
But the child rose from the waves, and looked back and smiled, and shookthe drops from its golden hair, and struck out fearlessly down thestream. It had changed, too, and the blue eyes and the clustering curlsbelonged to a strong, well-grown young man. Still she watched the formeagerly as it swam, for something reminded her of one she used to thinkthe type of manhood years and years ago. The voices warned her now torise and hasten, but the river plashed on sullenly as before.
She must run to yonder point, marked as it is by a white wooden cross.Far beyond it the stream whirls and seethes in a deep eddying pool, andshe must guide the swimmer to the cross, and help him to land there, orhe will be lost--De Rohan's child will be drowned in her sight. Howdoes she know it is called St. Hubert's Cross? Did the voices tell her?They are whispering still, but fainter and farther off. And the riverplashes on sullenly, but with a murmur of fierce impatience now.
She waves frantically to the swimmer, and would fain shout to him aloud,but she cannot speak; her shawl is wound so tight round her bosom thatit stops her voice, and her fingers struggle in vain amongst the knots.Why will he not turn his head towards her?--why does he dash so eagerlyon? proud of his strength, proud of his mastery over the flood--hisfather's own son. Ah! he hears it too. Far away, past the cross andthe whirlpool, down yonder on that sunny patch of sand, sits a mermaid,combing her long bright locks with a golden comb. She sings a sweet,wild, unearthly melody--it would woo a saint to perdition! Hark! how itmingles with the rushing voices and the plash of the angry river!
The sand is deep and quick along the water's edge; she sinks in it up tothe ankles, weights seem to clog her limbs, and hands she cannot see tohold her back; breathless she struggles on to reach the cross, for thereis a bend in the river there, and he will surely see her, and turn fromthe song of the mermaid, and she will drag him ashore and rescue himfrom his fate. The voices are close in her ears now, and the riverplashing at her very feet.
So she reaches the cross at last, and with frantic gestures--for she isstill speechless--waves him to the shore. But the mermaid beckons himwildly on, and the stream, seizing him like a prey, whirls him downwardseddying past the cross, and it is too late now. See! he turns his headat last, but to show the pale, rigid features of a corpse.
The voices come rushing like a hurricane in her ears; the plash of theriver rises to a mighty roar. Wildly the mermaid tosses her white armsabove her head, and laughs, and shrieks, and laughs again, in ghastlytriumph. The dreamer has found her voice now, and in a frenzy of despairand horror she screams aloud.
With that scream she awoke, and left her tent for the cool night air,and counted the hours till noon; and so, with no more preparation, shebetook herself to her journey, goaded with the thought that there mightbe time even yet.
It is sunrise now; a thousand gladsome tokens of life and happiness wakewith the morning light. The dew sparkles on herb and autumn flower; thelark rises into the bright, pure heaven; herds of oxen file slowlyacross the plain. Hope is ever strong in the morning; and the gipsy'sstep is more elastic, her brow grows clearer and her eye brighter, asshe calculates the distance she has already traversed, and the milesthat yet lie between her and the woods and towers of Edeldorf. A thirdof the journey is already accomplished; in another hour the summit ofthe Waldenberg ought to be visible, peering above the plain. She hasoften trod the same path before, but never in such haste as now.
A tall Hungarian peasant meets her, and recognising her at once for agipsy, doffs his hat, and bids her "Good-morrow, mother!" and craves ablessing from the Zingynie, for though he has no silver, he has a paperflorin or two in his pocket, and he would fain have his fortune told,and so while away an hour of his long, solitary day only just begun.With flashing eyes and impatient gestures she bans him as she passes,for she cannot brook even an instant's delay, and the curse springs withangry haste to her lips. He crosses himself in terror as he walks on,and all day he will be less comfortable that he encountered a gipsy'smalison at sunrise.
A village lies in her road; many a long mile before she reaches it, thewhite houses and tall acacias seem to mock her with their distinctoutlines and their apparent proximity--will it _never_ be any nearer?but she arrives there at last, and although she is weary and footsore,she dreams not of an instant's delay for refreshment or repose. Flocksof geese hiss and cackle at her as she passes: from the last cottage inthe street a little child runs merrily out with a plaything in its hand,it totters and falls just across her path; as she replaces it on itslegs she kisses it, that dark old woman, on its bright young brow. It isa good omen, and she feels easier about her heart now; she walks on withrenewed strength and elasticity--she will win yet.
Another hour, the sun is high in the heavens, and autumn though it be,the heat scorches her head through her crimson handkerchief and herthick grey hair. Ah! she is old now; though the spirit may last forever, the limbs fail in despite of it; what if she has miscalculated herstrength? what if she cannot reach the goal after all? Courage! thecrest of the Waldenberg shows high above the plain. Edeldorf, as sheknows well, lies between her and that rugged range of hills, but shequails to think from what a distance the waving woods of De Rohan's homeshould be visible, and that they are not yet in sight. Her limbs arevery weary, and the cold drops stand on her brow, for she is faint andsick at heart. Gallantly she struggles on.
It is a tameless race, that ancient nation of which we know not theorigin, and speculate on the destiny in vain. It transmit
s to itsdescendants a strain of blood which seems as invincible by physicalfatigue as it is averse to moral restraint. Lake some wild animal, likesome courser of pure Eastern breed, the gipsy gained second strength asshe toiled. Three hours after sunrise she was literally fresher andstronger than when she met and cursed the astonished herdsman in theearly morning; and as the distance decreased between the traveller andher destination, as the white towers of Edeldorf stood out clearer andclearer in the daylight, glad hope and kindly affection gushed up in herheart, and, lame, wearied, exhausted as she was, a thrill of triumphshot through her as she thought she might see her darling in time towarn him even now.
At the lodge gate she sinks exhausted on a stone. A dashing hussarmounting guard, as befits his office, scans her with an astonished look,and crosses himself more than once with a hurried, inward prayer. He isa bold fellow enough, and would face an Austrian cuirassier or a Russianbayonet as readily and fearlessly as a flask of strong Hungarian wine,but he quails and trembles at the very thought of the Evil Eye.
"The Count! the Count!" gasps out the breathless Zingynie, "is he at theCastle? can I see Count Victor?"
"All in good time, mother!" replies he good-naturedly; "the Count isgone shooting to the Waldenberg. The carriages have but just driven by;did you not see them as you came here?"
"And the Count, is he not riding, as is his custom? will he not pass byhere as he gallops on to overtake them? Has my boy learned to forget thesaddle, and to neglect the good horse that his father's son shouldlove?"
"Not to-day, mother," answered the hussar. "All the carriages are goneto-day, and the Count sits in the first with a bright, beautiful lady,ah, brighter even than our Countess, and more beautiful, with her redlips and her sunny hair."
All hussars are connoisseurs in beauty.
"My boy, my boy," mutters the old woman; and the hussar, seeing how illshe looks, produces a flask of his favourite remedy, and insists on herpartaking of its contents. It brings the colour back to her cheek, andthe blood to her heart.
"And they are gone to the Waldenberg! and I ought to reach it by themountain-path before them even now. Oh, for one hour of my girlhood! onehour of the speed I once thought so little of! I would give all therest of my days for that hour now. To the Waldenberg!"
"To the Waldenberg!" answered the hussar, taking the flask (empty) fromhis lips; but even while he spoke she was gone.
As she followed the path towards the mountain, a large raven flew out ofthe copse-wood on her left, and hopped along the track in front of her.Then the gipsy's lips turned ashy-white once more, for she knew she wastoo late.