Читать книгу Zula - H. Esselstyn Lindley - Страница 12

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It was near the middle of September that Mr. Platts and his family returned home. Mary was there to receive them, and very glad to see them.

It happened one day that Mary, having an unusual amount of work on hand, had requested Zula to go on an errand for her, to which she, ever ready to oblige, at once consented. It was nearing twilight and as Zula started to return home she was met by Crisp, who at once recognized her in spite of her changed countenance and neat attire.

“Oh, so I have found you. I have looked all over for you,” he said. “Maam wants to see you awful bad; she is so sick and she knows she is going to die; she says she must see you.”

“Is she really ill?”

“Yes,” Crisp answered, trying to look sad.

“I am sorry,” Zula said.

“Come and see her, then.”

“Oh, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can; you would if you knew how Maam cried after you.”

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“Then what made her let you whip me so?”

“She’s awful sorry, and she says if you will just come home and let her see you once she could die better.”

“Crisp, is it true that Maam is going to die?”

“As true as the stars shine, and she’s got something to tell you. I guess she’s got lots o’ money to give you, but anyway she wants to tell you something.”

“Well, you stay here then, Crisp, until I go home and tell my mother, and I will go if you will promise to come back with me, or let me come.”

“Why, yes, I will let you come, but you won’t have time to wait. You must come right away, or Maam might be dead when you got there.”

Poor Zula did not know what to do. She feared Crisp, and she could not bear the thought of going without Mrs. Platts’ consent, and then when she thought of poor Meg dying and longing to see her, her tender heart yielded, and she thought she must go to her. She would explain all to Mrs. Platts when she returned, and she knew she would forgive her.

“Crisp,” she said again, “are you speaking the truth?”

“Oh, dear, yes; do come, or we won’t see her again at all,” Crisp replied, in a troubled voice.

She looked again at Crisp’s ugly face, and then she thought of all the cruel blows he had given her. She knew that the road to the camp with him would be a dangerous one, but she thought of poor old Meg dying, and longing to see her, and if she had been cruel to her, she was her mother, and she would go if Crisp would promise to bring her back that night.

He gave a solemn promise to do so, and Zula walking 55 along hurriedly, by his side, wondered whether he had really told the truth, or was it all a fabrication of his own. Crisp questioned Zula as to where she had lived, and whether she had to work since she left them, and why she did not bring back the money she got for the beadwork, to which Zula replied that she could give them that amount now.

They reached the camp. All was still, for the gypsies were sleeping soundly.

“Come still,” said Crisp, gliding into one of the tents. “’Cause you might wake her.”

Zula followed softly, but no sooner had she entered the tent than she was seized by Crisp, and her hands bound tightly behind her. Old Meg arose from her straw bed, and, opening wide her eyes, looked in wonder at Zula, and as a grin of satisfaction passed over her face, she asked:

“Where did you find her?”

“On the street in Detroit, and I guess we will keep her this time.”

“It’s a wonder she did not get away.”

“Oh, I told her you was sick and going to die, so she came along.”

“You’re a good boy, Crisp, and you’ll get the money and she’ll get the lashes; yes, yes, she’ll get the lashes, the sinful jade, and you can give ’em to her, and lay ’em on good; tie her tight till to-morrow and then settle with her.”

Crisp did as his mother directed, and Zula knowing his strength made no resistance. Then he went to his straw bed and slept soundly, until morning. The sun 56 was well up when he went to Zula, and untying her hands led her out to a tree, where he bound her, saying:

“Now, you will find who is lady, or who is gypsy.”

He wound the lash that he had brought, around his brawny hand, and one by one the blows fell fast upon the quivering flesh. No word escaped her lips; but a slight groan followed every stroke of the whip. The little soft hands were locked tightly together and the face grew paler and paler, as the strokes left their marks deep and red.

“I’ll take the pride out of you, my young queen; you dare not run away again,” said Crisp, growing more and more angry, and giving vent to his demoniac ire in heavier strokes. As the lash sunk into the flesh a deeper paleness crept over Zula’s face, a heavy groan escaped her, and “Oh, Crisp,” was spoken in a tone full of agony.

Old Meg, who stood watching the proceedings, now advanced, and said:

“Stop, Crisp, not so hard; don’t you see you are killing her?”

Zula’s head sank upon her breast and an ashen paleness overspread her face.

“Yes, stop,” said a voice close behind him, and at that moment a form appeared among the trees.

“Who are you?” Crisp asked, angrily.

“It matters not who I am, but I command you to cease your cruelty, and untie that poor girl. Shame on a man who would commit such a cowardly deed. If you have a spark of manhood about you let her go.”

“What business have you to interfere, I should like 57 to know? She stays there till she knows how to behave herself.”

The stranger deliberately placed his hand behind him, and drawing a pistol from his pocket pointed it at Crisp, who instantly dropped his hand by his side, while his ugly face became purple with anger and fright, as he advanced a step toward Zula.

“I will give you just three minutes to release that girl, and if you do not do as I bid you your worthless head shall pay the forfeit. You have already intended murder, and had you been allowed to proceed, would have ended her life.”

Crisp began the work of untying the ropes which bound Zula, whose head lay upon her breast as motionless as though death had done its work.

When the cords were loosened, the young man bade Crisp carry her to her bed, which he did, while the stranger followed him. Old Meg brought a basin of water and bathed her face.

“Is she your daughter?” the stranger asked, addressing old Meg.

“Yes,” she replied.

“How, then, can you treat her so cruelly?”

“She runs away, and we have to whip her hard,” she said, glancing at Crisp, who stood like a cowering criminal, gazing on the ruin he had wrought.

“You whipped her too hard, Crisp,” said Meg, who still seemed to have a spot of pity left in her heart.

Crisp could find nothing to say in self-defense, so remained silent, but the stranger noticed the look of intense hatred on his ugly face, as he gazed at the seemingly 58 lifeless form before him. Zula breathed heavily, then slowly opened her eyes. They rested for a moment on the face of the young man, then with a sudden start and a flood of tears she turned and covered her face with her hands.

“Poor girl!” said the young man. “I am so sorry for you.”

She tried to arise, but was too much exhausted. The pain inflicted by the terrible blows had nearly taken her life, and she sank back, again, white and trembling.

“Oh, I am so ill,” she moaned.

“Go for some water, Crisp, and I will make her some herb tea,” said old Meg, and she followed Crisp from the tent.

The stranger took from his pocket a card, and handing it to Zula told her in case anything of the kind ever occurred again, to make him acquainted with the fact and he would come to her rescue.

“Can you read the address?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” she answered. “I can read, and I thank you so much; perhaps some day, I can do something to repay you.”

She took a steady look at the card, then returned it to him, saying:

“Take it, I shall remember.”

“I am afraid you will forget.”

“No, I shall not forget, and it will be safer here,” she said, pointing to her forehead. “You know they can’t find it here.”

He made no reply, for Meg was just coming in with 59 a cup of tea, which she gave to Zula, who as she drank it, said:

“It is so bitter.”

“It will strengthen you,” said the old gypsy.

“Will it cure the cuts on my shoulder?” asked Zula.

“That is all nonsense.”

“Oh, I know it is cut; and here is one on my arm; I know by the way they smart.”

She raised the sleeve of her dress, and revealed a gash from which the blood had started.

“Then you must learn to be good. You don’t know,” she said, turning to the stranger, “what a bad little thief she is.”

“No matter what wrong she has done it does not justify the punishment you have given her.”

Zula’s eyes were turned full upon the face of the young man as though beseeching him not to believe her guilty.

“Will you have your fortune told?” asked Meg.

“For what? I came out to the woods to get fresh air and to practice a little shooting. I came very near using that young rascal there for a target. It is quite necessary to keep in practice, I see—but what do you know of my fortune?”

“I can tell you what you wish to know most.”

He laughed.

“See if I cannot.”

“Well,” he said, prompted by curiosity, “if you can tell me all that, proceed.”

She took his hand, as soft and white as a woman’s, and gazing at the palm, she said:

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“You are wealthy.”

“Indeed.”

“Your parents are both living.”

“Yes.”

“Your hands are never soiled with work.”

“I thought you were to tell me something which I did not know.”

“You will marry a beautiful woman.”

“Ah! well, that will be no satisfaction if she is not good.”

“She will be good and beautiful.”

“That is well.”

“But there are tears for you, and the stain of blood on your hands.”

The young man drew back, then laughed at his own folly.

“No,” he said, “there will never be the stain of blood on my hands. Tears are for us all, but crime is not for me.”

“We can’t change the fates.”

“We weave our own destiny, perhaps.”

“Others weave for us and we must take what comes.”

“I must go,” he said. “Is there any more fortune for me?”

“Yes, there is a great deal to tell.”

“I will come some other day and get the rest of it, I must go,” he said, placing a piece of money in her hand. “I suppose you get a great many silver pieces in this way.”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, placing the money in a well-filled beaded bag. “Yes, almost every afternoon the 61 young ladies and gentlemen from the city come here.”

“Well, I cannot see that I have learned anything,” said the young man, thinking that she had given him all that her wicked heart would allow, and that the criminal part was given through spite from his having interfered in the whipping of Zula. He went to the door of the tent and bade Zula good-bye, then wandered away through the woods.

“Oh, dear,” said Zula to herself, with eyes filling with tears; “why cannot I stay with some one who is kind to me? I wish I could get back home to dear Mr. and Mrs. Platts, and I will, too, some day. How kind they were to me. If I ever get a chance to hurt Crisp I’ll do it. I believe I’ll kill him.”

The thought had scarcely passed through Zula’s brain ere she shuddered at its coming.

“How terrible that would be,” she added. “Oh, I wish I could get away from him; I know if I do not I shall do something terribly wicked. If I could only get home again I could be good. I do not feel so wicked when I am with dear Mrs. Platts. I wonder why.”

It was not strange that Zula should feel a spirit of revenge while in the presence of Crisp and his mother.

The gypsy camp was arranged for a dance. Zula lay on her bed and ever and anon caught a glimpse of some gaily dressed gypsy, as they flitted by the tent door. A young girl entered the tent, and going to Zula, said:

“Meg sent me in to tell you to get up and come out; they want you to play the guitar.”

“I don’t want to play,” said Zula, in a half angry tone. “I am too lame to play or dance, and they would 62 not let me dance if I could, just because they know I would enjoy it more.”

“Well, I suppose you will have to come anyway, ’cause Meg said so, and so did Crisp.”

“Crispin,” and Zula’s eyes flashed a light like that of an angry tiger. “Crisp, I hate him bad enough to kill him.”

“I’m sorry for you, Zu,” said Fan, as she noticed the great red marks on Zula’s flesh. “I am so sorry, and if I was you I’d——”

“What would you do?”

“I’d run away, and join some other band,” said Fan, coming close and whispering the words in Zula’s ear.

“No, I don’t want to join any band. I don’t want to be a gypsy at all. Oh, I was so much happier when I was at home and had a nice clean bed, and everybody was so kind to me.”

“Well, that was nice, but you see, you had to work.”

“If I did, that was nothing.”

“Oh, no, but then we can lay in the shade all we like and have a nice time, and so we get something to eat and do what we please, what is the difference?”

Zula felt that there was a great difference, and, gypsy though she was, she felt that there was more happiness in having employment and kind friends than all the pleasures of a life of idleness.

“Come, Zu, hurry up, or you will get another flogging.”

“If I do it will not kill me, or, if it does I do not care. I wish it would; I’d rather be dead than live this way.”

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“It is too bad, I know, but I don’t see why they whip you that way. I never get such poundings.”

“Because you are good and mind what you are told,” said a harsh, croaking voice at the door.

Zula looked up, but there was neither love nor fear in the gaze that fell on her mother’s face. She had grown reckless as to fear, and so accustomed to the pain inflicted by the strokes of the lash, that had she been commanded to receive fifty, she would have betrayed no emotion.

“Come, you lazy thing, you may as well make yourself useful; you are good for nothing anyway, so you may help to make music for the dance.”

“I hate music—that kind, anyway. It’s like the croaking of a frog. I would rather dance if I wasn’t so lame and my arms so sore.”

“Come along, then; playing a while will cure you, I guess. You have got most too smart since you ran away and stole your livin’ from the white ladies.”

“I didn’t steal it; they gave it to me, and didn’t whip me either.”

“Then they didn’t give you what you deserved; but let me tell you, you’ll not get a chance to get away again very soon,” said the old gypsy, with a grin that made her fairly hideous.

Zula made no reply, but as she arose to her feet, scarcely able to stand at all, she was making a strong resolution in regard to a secret that a second party did not possess. Some day she would execute the plan which she had laid out, but she must work with the utmost caution. She was only a gypsy, which fact she 64 fully realized, but there was something away in the distant future that her heart cried out for, and she would reach out until she could grasp it, if she died in the attempt. She was a gypsy, and she knew she could never be a fine lady, but she might find a way out of this terrible darkness and find at least a break in the clouds, if not the broad open sunshine in which she thought many a one lived.

She had made a resolution to escape from Crisp, but how was it to be done? She had more than half made up her mind that could she get back to Mrs. Platts, she would tell her all about her mother, and all the trouble she had gone through, but in that case they would know she was a gypsy, and the thought caused a blush of shame to pass over her face.

When the dance was over she put away the guitar with painfully tired arms and an aching heart. When she saw Crisp, as he moved about, cast exultant glances at her, and saw her mother watching her every movement, then was her resolution formed, not to be changed, for let come what would, hardships, torture, or even death, nothing should change her purpose. She would escape, and as she sat quietly working with her beads, making many pretty articles for sale, her brain was working more briskly than her fingers, trying to devise a means of escape.

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