The intense sorrow of the Countess De Courcy had also been subdued and rendered far less poignant by time. She too, had been obliged, by her elevated position, to resume that place in the fashionable world she was so well fitted to fill. But when in the glittering assembly, the brilliant ball, the gorgeous pageant, was sweet, lost Erminie forgotten? Never? Outwardly, that one great sorrow had left its traces still in the deeper pallor of the lovely face, in the subdued light of the large, melancholy dark eyes, in the soft, tender smile that seemed something holy as it hovered around the sweet, beautiful lips. It had made her a gentler, better woman, with a heart ever melting at the cry of distress, with a hand ever ready to relieve it. It had humbled her pride; it had elevated her soul; it had made her gentle, tender, and more saintly then ever before. Her love for children amounted almost to a passion; those “human flowers,” as some one prettily calls them, could at any time arrest her attention, and make her forget all else. Not a child among all the earl’s tenantry that had not received proof of her affection, in the shape of creature-comforts and even as she idolized children, so was she invariably loved by them in return.
The country seat of the De Courcys was a fine old mansion, embowered in trees, with splendid parks, fine preserves, and surrounded by beautiful scenery. Here, with their friends, the earl and countess were in the habit of going each summer, to spend a few weeks; and here the happiest moments of Lady Maude were spent, wandering through the dim old woods, where she could dream, undisturbed, of her lost darling.
Taking her accustomed walk, one day, she was arrested by the loud cries of a child near. With her sympathies ever enlisted for children, she glanced quickly in the direction, and beheld a little, infantile-looking child of two years old apparently, gazing bewildered, and screaming away at the top of its lungs.
Lady Maude approached, and at a single glance became deeply interested in this little stray waif.
It was a face of singular beauty that met her eye. A dark olive complexion, large, brilliant black eyes, coal-black hair that now hung tangled and disordered over her shoulders. Her little dress was torn, and her hands and face scratched with brambles. The child was evidently lost.
Lady Maude approached; and the child, turning to gaze on her, for a moment ceased her cries. Stooping down, she parted the elf-locks off the dark little face, and gazed long and earnestly down into the bright eyes that fearlessly met her own. Something in that face haunted and troubled her; it seemed to her she had seen it before. Yet that could hardly be; for this was not a face easily forgotten, when once seen. The longer she looked, the more and more troubled she grew. It seemed to her she must have seen a face like this somewhere before, and that it was connected with some dark memory—what, she could not tell.
The child, with the confiding confidence of infancy, looked up in the pale, sweet face of the lovely lady, and artlessly lisped:
“Ma mere.“
“French,” murmured Lady Maude, in surprise. “How in the world can she have come here? Where is ‘mother,’ little one?” she asked, in the same language.
“Gone away—bad man get Rita,” lisped the little innocent, pulling Lady Maude’s dress, as if to urge her along.