Sharing Her Crime: A Novel
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Title: Sharing Her Crime: A Novel
Author: May Agnes Fleming
Release date: March 3, 2011 [eBook #35462]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHARING HER CRIME: A NOVEL ***
Produced by Brenda Lewis, woodie4 and the Online Distributed
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POPULAR NOVELS.
BY MAY AGNES FLEMING.
1.--GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE.
2.--A WONDERFUL WOMAN.
3.--A TERRIBLE SECRET.
4.--NORINE'S REVENGE.
5.--A MAD MARRIAGE.
6.--ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY.
7.--KATE DANTON.
8.--SILENT AND TRUE.
9.--HEIR OF CHARLTON.
10.--CARRIED BY STORM.
11.--LOST FOR A WOMAN.
12.--A WIFE'S TRAGEDY.
13.--A CHANGED HEART.
14.--PRIDE AND PASSION.
15.--SHARING HER CRIME (_New_).
"Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popular every day.
Their delineations of character, life-like conversations, flashes of
wit, constantly varying scenes, and deeply interesting plots,
combine to place their author in the very first rank of Modern
Novelists."
All published uniform with this volume. Price, $1.50
each, and sent _free_ by mail on receipt of price,
BY
G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,
New York.
SHARING
HER CRIME.
A Novel.
BY
MAY AGNES FLEMING,
AUTHOR OF
"GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE," "A TERRIBLE SECRET," "SILENT AND TRUE,"
"A WONDERFUL WOMAN," "LOST FOR A WOMAN,"
"ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY," "A MAD MARRIAGE,"
ETC., ETC.
"A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still and bright,
With something of an angel light."
NEW YORK: Copyright, 1882, by
_G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_.
LONDON: S. LOW & CO.
MDCCCLXXXIII.
Stereotyped by
SAMUEL STODDER,
90 ANN STREET, N. Y.
TROW
PRINTING AND BOOK BINDING CO.,
N. Y.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Plotters 7
II. The Death of Esther 18
III. The Astrologer 24
IV. Barry Oranmore 29
V. Mount Sunset Hall 37
VI. Lizzie's Lover 49
VII. The Cypress Wreath 62
VIII. Gipsy 70
IX. A Storm at Mount Sunset Hall 82
X. Miss Hagar 91
XI. Gipsy Outwits the Squire 101
XII. The Tigress and the Dove 109
XIII. Gipsy Astonishes the Natives 119
XIV. The Moonlight Flitting 130
XV. The "Star of the Valley." 139
XVI. Our Gipsy 150
XVII. Gipsy's Return to Sunset Hall 158
XVIII. Archie 169
XIX. Gipsy's Daring 182
XX. The Sailor Boy's Doom 191
XXI. The Spider Weaves his Web 204
XXII. Fetters for the Eaglet 215
XXIII. The Bird Caged 222
XXIV. May and December 235
XXV. Archie's Lost Love 246
XXVI. Louis 254
XXVII. Love at First Sight 267
XXVIII. "The Old, Old Story." 277
XXIX. The Rivals 287
XXX. Gipsy Hunts New Game 296
XXXI. Celeste's Trial 306
XXXII. "The Queen of Song." 318
XXXIII. A Startling Discovery 328
XXXIV. Light in the Darkness 334
XXXV. The Death-bed Confession 341
XXXVI. Retribution 351
XXXVII. Another Surprise 357
XXXVIII. The Heiress of Sunset Hall 364
XXXIX. "Last Scene of All." 373
SHARING HER CRIME.
CHAPTER I.
THE PLOTTERS.
"'Tis a woman hard of feature,
Old, and void of all good nature.
'Tis an ugly, envious shrew,
Railing forever at me and you."--POPE.
It was Christmas Eve. All day long crowds of gayly dressed people had
walked the streets, basking in the bright wintry sunshine. Sleigh after
sleigh went dashing past, with merrily jingling bells, freighted with
rosy cheeks, and bright eyes, and youthful faces, all aglow with
happiness.
But the sun must set on Christmas Eve, as on all other days; and redly,
threateningly, angrily, he sank down in the far west. Dark, sullen
clouds came rolling ominously over the heavens; the wind blew piercingly
cold, accompanied with a thin, drizzling rain that froze ere it fell.
Gradually the streets were deserted as the storm increased in fury; but
the Yule logs were piled high, the curtains drawn, and every house,
_save one_, in the handsome street to which my story leads me, was all
aglow, all ablaze with light.
In a lull of the storm the sounds of music and merry-making would rise
and swell on the air, as light feet tripped merrily amid the mazes of
the dance; or a silvery peal of laughter would break easily on the
wayfarer's ear. The reflection of the light through the crimson curtains
shed a warm, rosy glow over the snowy ground, brightening the gloom of
that stormy winter's night.
But rising dark, grim, and gloomy amid those gayly lighted mansions,
stood a large, quaint building of dark-red sandstone. It stood by
itself, spectral, shadowy, and grand. No ray of light came from the
gloomy windows that seemed to be hermetically sealed. All around was
stern, black, and forbidding.
And yet--yes, from one solitary window there _did_ stream a long, thin
line of light. But even this did not look bright and cheerful like the
rest; it had a cold, yellowish glare, making the utter blackness of the
rest of the mansion blacker still by contrast.
The room from which the light issued was high and lofty. The uncarpeted
floor was of black polished oak, as also were the wainscoting and
mantel. The walls were covered with landscape paper, representing the
hideous Dance of Death, in all its variety of frightful forms. The high
windows were hung with heavy green damask, now black with dirt and age.
A large circular table of black marble stood in one shadowy corner, and
a dark, hard sofa, so long and black that it resembled a coffin, stood
in the other.
A smoldering sea-coal fire, the only cheerful thing in that gloomy room,
struggled for life in the wide, yawning chimney. Now it would die away,
enveloping the apartment in gloom, and anon flame fitfully up, until the
ghostly shadows on the wall would seem like a train of ghastly specters
flitting by in the darkness. The elm trees in front of the house trailed
their long arms against the window with a sound inexpressibly dreary;
and the driving hail beat clamorously, as if for admittance.
On either side of the fire-place stood two large easy-chairs, cushioned
with deep crimson velvet. In these, facing each other, sat two
persons--a man and a woman--the only occupants of the room.
The woman was tall, straight, and stiff, and seemingly about fifty years
of age. Her dress was a rustling black satin, with a small crape
handkerchief fastened on her bosom with a magnificent diamond pin. Her
hands, still small and white, were flashing with jewels as they lay
quietly folded in her lap. A widow's cap rested on her head, which was
alternately streaked with gray and jet. But her face--so stern, so
rigid, no one could look upon it without a feeling of fear. The lips--so
thin that she seemed to have no lips at all--were compressed with a look
of unswerving determination. Her forehead was low and retreating, with
thick black eyebrows meeting across the long, sharp nose, with a look at
once haughty and sinister. And from under those midnight brows glittered
and gleamed a pair of eyes so small, so sharp and keen--with such a look
of cold, searching, _steely_ brightness--that the boldest gaze might
well quail before them. On that grim, hard face no trace of womanly
feeling seemed ever to have lingered--all was stern, harsh, and
freezingly cold. She sat rigidly erect in her chair, with her
needle-like eyes riveted immovably on the face of her companion, who
shifted with evident uneasiness beneath her uncompromising stare.
He was a man of forty, or thereabouts, so small of stature that,
standing side by side, he could scarcely have reached the woman's
shoulder. But, notwithstanding his diminutive size, his limbs were
disproportionately large for his body, giving him the appearance of
being all legs and arms. His little, round bullet-head was set on a
prodigiously thick, bull-like neck; and his hair, short, and bristling
up over his head, gave him very much the look of the sun, as pictured in
the almanacs.
This prepossessing gentleman was arrayed in an immaculate suit of black,
with a spotless white dickey, bristling with starch and dignity, and a
most excruciating cravat. Half a dozen rings garnished his claw-like
hands, and a prodigious quantity of watch-chain dangled from his vest.
The worthy twain were engaged in deep and earnest conversation.
"Well, doctor," said the lady, in a cold, measured tone, that was
evidently habitual, "no doubt you are wondering why I sent for you in
such haste to-night."
"I never wonder, madam," said the doctor, in a pompous tone--which,
considering his size, was quite imposing. "No doubt you have some
excellent reason for sending for me, which, if necessary for me to know,
you will explain."
"You are right, doctor," said the lady, with a grim sort of smile. "I
_have_ an excellent reason for sending for you. You are fond of money, I
know."
"Why, madam, although it is the root of all evil----"
"Tush, man! There is no need for Satan to quote Scripture just now," she
interrupted with a sneer. "Say, doctor, what would you do to earn five
hundred dollars to-night?"
"Five hundred dollars?" said the doctor, his small eyes sparkling, while
a gleam of satisfaction lighted up his withered face.
"Yes," said the lady, "and if well done, I may double the sum. What
would you do for such a price?"
"Rather ask me what I would _not_ do."
"Well, the job is an easy one. 'Tis but to----"
She paused, and fixed her eyes on his face with such a wild sort of
gleam that, involuntarily, he quailed before her.
"Pray go on, madam. I'm all attention," he said, almost fearing to break
the dismal silence. "'Tis but to--_what_?"
"Make away with--a woman and child!"
"Murder them?" said the doctor, involuntarily recoiling.
"Do not use that word!" she said, sharply. "Coward! do you really blanch
and draw back! Methought one of your profession would not hesitate to
send a patient to heaven."
"But, madam," said the startled doctor, "you know the penalty which the
law awards for murder."
"Oh, I perceive," said the woman, scornfully, "it is not the crime you
are thinking of, but your own precious neck. Fear not, my good friend;
there is no danger of its ever being discovered."
"But, my _dear_ madam," said the doctor, glancing uneasily at the stern,
bitter face before him, "I have not the nerve, the strength, nor
the----"
"_Courage!_" she broke in, passionately. "Oh, craven--weak,
chicken-hearted, miserable craven! Go, then--leave me, and I will do it
myself. You dare not betray me--you _could_ not without bringing your
neck to the halter--so I fear you not. Oh, coward! coward! why did not
heaven make _me_ a man?"
In her fierce outburst of passion she arose to her feet, and her tall
figure loomed up like some unnaturally large, dark shadow. The man
quailed in fear before her.
"Go!" she said, fiercely, pointing to the door, "You have refused to
_share my crime_. Go! poor cowardly poltroon! but remember, Madge
Oranmore never forgives nor forgets!"
"But, my dear Mrs. Oranmore, just listen to me one moment," said the
doctor, alarmed by this threat. "I have not refused, I only objected. If
you will have the goodness to explain--to tell me what I must do, I
will--see about it."
"See about it!" hastily interrupted the lady. "You _can_ do it--it is in
your power; and yes, or no, must be your answer, immediately."
"But----"
"No buts, sir. I will not have them. If you answer yes, one thousand
dollars and my future patronage shall be yours. If you say no, yonder is
the door; and once you have crossed the threshold, beware! Now, Doctor
Wiseman, I await your reply."
She seated herself again in her chair; and, folding her hands in her
lap, fixed her hawk-like eyes on his face, with her keen, searching
gaze. His eyes were bent in troubled thought on the floor. Not that the
crime appalled him; but if detected--_that_ was the rub. Doctor Wiseman
was, as his name implies, a man of sense, with an exceedingly
accommodating conscience, that would stretch _ad libitum_, and never
troubled him with any such nonsense as remorse. But if it were
discovered! With rather unpleasant vividness, the vision of a hangman
and halter arose before him, and he involuntarily loosened his cravat.
Still, one thousand dollars _were_ tempting. Doctor Nicholas Wiseman had
never been so perplexed in his life.
"Well, doctor, well," impatiently broke in the lady, "have you
decided--_yes_ or _no_?"
"Yes," said the doctor, driven to desperation by her sneering tone.
"'Tis well," she replied, with a mocking smile, "I knew you were too
sensible a man to refuse. After all, 'tis but a moment's work, and all
is over."
"Will you be good enough to give me the explanation now, madam?" said
the doctor, almost shuddering at the cold, unfeeling tone in which she
spoke.
"Certainly. You are aware, doctor, that when I married my late husband,
Mr. Oranmore, he was a widower with one son, then three years old."
"I am aware of that fact, madam."
"Well, you also know that when this child, Alfred, was five years of
age, _my_ son, Barry, was born."
"Yes, madam."
"Perhaps you think it unnecessary for me to go so far back, doctor, but
I wish everything to be perfectly understood. Well, these two boys grew
up together, were sent to school and college together, and treated in
every way alike, _outwardly_; but, of course, when at home, Barry was
treated best. Alfred Oranmore had all the pride of his English
forefathers, and scorned to complain; but I could see, in his flashing
eyes and curling lips, that every slight was noticed. Mr. Oranmore never
interfered with me in my household arrangements, nor did his son ever
complain to him; though, if he had, Mr. Oranmore had too much good sense
to mention it to _me_."
The lady compressed her lips with stately dignity, and the doctor looked
down with something as near a smile as his wrinkled lips could wear.
_He_ knew very well Mr. Oranmore would not have interfered; for never
after his marriage had the poor man dared to call his soul his own. The
lady, however, did not perceive the smile, and went on:
"When Barry left college, he expressed a desire to travel for two or
three years on the Continent; and I readily gave him permission, for Mr.
Oranmore was then dead. Alfred was studying law, and I knew his dearest
wish was to travel; but, as a matter of course, it was out of the
question for _him_ to go. I told him I could not afford it, that it
would cost a great deal to pay Barry's expenses, and that he must give
up all idea of it. Barry went, and Alfred staid; though, as things
afterward turned out, it would have been better had I allowed him to
go."
Her eyes flashed, and her brows knit with rising anger, as she
continued;
"You know old Magnus Erliston--Squire Erliston, as they call him. You
know also how very wealthy he is reputed to be--owning, besides the
magnificent estate of Mount Sunset, a goodly portion of the village of
St. Mark's. Well, Squire Erliston has two daughters, to the eldest of
whom, in accordance with the will of his father (from whom he received
the property), Mount Sunset Hall will descend. Before my husband's
death, I caused him to will his whole property to my son Barry, leaving
Alfred penniless. Barry's fortune, therefore, is large, though far from
being as enormous as that Esther Erliston was to have. Well, the squire
and I agreed that, as soon as Barry returned from Europe they should be
married, and thus unite the estates of Oranmore and Erliston. Neither
Barry nor Esther, with the usual absurdity of youth, would agree to this
arrangement; but, of course, their objection mattered little. I knew I
could easily manage Barry by the power of my stronger will; and the
squire, who is rough and blustering, could, without much difficulty,
frighten Esther into compliance--when all our schemes were suddenly
frustrated by that meddler, that busy-body, Alfred Oranmore."
She paused, and again her eyes gleamed with concentrated hatred and
passion.
"He went to Mount Sunset, and by some means met Esther Erliston. Being
what romantic writers would call one of 'nature's princes,' he easily
succeeded in making a fool of her; they eloped, were married secretly,
and Squire Erliston woke up one morning to learn that his dainty heiress
had abandoned papa for the arms of a _beggar_, and was, as the wife of a
penniless lawyer, residing in the goodly city of Washington.
"Pretty Esther doubtless imagined that she had only to throw herself at
papa's feet and bathe them with her tears, to be received with open
arms. But the young lady found herself slightly mistaken. Squire
Erliston stamped, and raged, and swore, and frightened every one in St.
Mark's out of their wits; and then, calming down, 'vowed a vow' never to
see or acknowledge his daughter more. Esther was then eighteen. If she
lived to reach her majority, Mount Sunset would be hers in spite of him.
But the squire had vowed that before she should get it, he would burn
Sunset Hall to the ground and plow the land with salt. Now, doctor, I
heard that, and set myself to work. Squire Erliston has a younger
daughter; and I knew that, if Esther died, that younger daughter would
become heiress to all the property, and she would then be just as good a
wife for Barry as her sister. Well, I resolved that Esther should no
longer stand in my way, that she should never live to reach her
majority. Start not, doctor, I see that you do not yet know Madge
Oranmore."
She looked like a very fiend, as she sat smiling grimly at him from her
seat.
"Fortune favored me," she continued. "Alfred Oranmore, with two or three
other young men, going out one day for a sail, was overtaken by a sudden
squall--they knew little about managing a boat, and all on board were
drowned. I read it in the papers and set out for Washington. After much
difficulty I discovered Esther in a wretched boarding-house; for, after
her husband's death, all their property was taken for debt. She did not
know me, and I had little difficulty in persuading her to accompany me
home. Three days ago we arrived. I caused a report to be circulated at
Washington that the wife of the late Alfred Oranmore had died in great
poverty and destitution. The story found its way into the papers; I sent
one containing the account of her death to Squire Erliston; so all
trouble in that quarter is over."
"And _Esther_?" said the doctor, in a husky whisper.
"Of her we will speak by and by," said the lady, with a wave of her
hand; "at present I must say a few words of my son Barry. Three weeks
ago he returned home; but has, from some inexplicable cause, refused to
reside here. He boards now in a distant quarter of the city. Doctor,
what says the world about this--is there any reason given?"
"Well, yes, madam," said the doctor, with evident reluctance.
"And what is it, may I ask?"
"I fear, madam, you will be offended."
"'Sdeath! man, go on!" she broke in passionately. "What sayeth the
far-seeing, all-wise world of him?"
"'Tis said he has brought a wife with him from Europe, whom he wishes to
conceal."
"Ha! ha!" laughed the lady, scornfully. "Yes, I heard it too--a
barefooted bog-trotter, forsooth! But 'tis false, doctor! false, I tell
you! You must contradict the report everywhere you hear it. That any one
should dare to say that my son--my proud, handsome Barry--would marry a
potato-eating Biddy! Oh! but for my indignation I could laugh at the
utter absurdity."
But the fierce gleam of her eye, and the passionate clenching of her
hand, bespoke her in anything but a laughing humor.
"I would not for worlds this report should reach Lizzie Erliston," she
said, somewhat more calmly. "And speaking of her brings me back to her
sister. Doctor, Esther Oranmore lies in yonder room."
He startled slightly, and glanced uneasily in the direction, but said
nothing.
"Doctor," continued Mrs. Oranmore, in a low, stern, impressive voice,
while her piercing eyes seemed reading his very soul, "_she must never
live to see the sun rise again_!"
"Madam!" he exclaimed, recoiling suddenly.
"You hear me, doctor, and you _must_ obey. She must not live to see
Christmas morning dawn."
"Would you have me murder her?" he inquired, in a voice quivering
between fear and horror.
"If you will call it by that name, yes," she replied, still keeping her
blazing eyes fixed immovably on his face. "She and her child must die."
"Her child!"
"Yes, come and see it. The night of its birth must be that of its
death."
She rose, and making a motion for him to follow her, led the way from
the apartment. Opening a heavy oaken door, she ushered him into a dim
bed-room, furnished with a lounge, a square bedstead, whose dark drapery
gave it the appearance of a hearse, and a small table covered with
bottles and glasses. Going to the lounge, she pointed to something
wrapped in a large shawl. He bent down, and the faint wail of an infant
met his ear.
"_She_ is yonder," said the lady, pointing to the bed; "examine these
bottles; she will ask you for a drink, _give_ it to her--you understand!
Remember, you have promised." And before he could speak, she glided from
the room.
CHAPTER II.
THE DEATH OF ESTHER.
"What shrieking spirit in that bloody room
Its mortal frame hath violently quitted?
Across the moonbeam, with a sudden gleam,
A ghostly shadow flitted."--HOOD.
For a moment he stood still, stunned and bewildered. Understand? Yes, he
understood her too well.
He approached the bed, and softly drew back the heavy, dark curtains.
Lying there, in a troubled sleep, lay a young girl, whose face was
whiter than the pillow which supported her. Her long hair streamed in
wild disorder over her shoulders, and added to the wanness of her pale
face.
She moaned and turned restlessly on her pillow, and opened a pair of
large, wild eyes, and fixed them on the unprepossessing face bending
over her. With lips and eyes opened with terror, she lay gazing, until
he said, in as gentle a voice as he could assume;
"Do not be afraid of me--I am the doctor. Can I do anything for you,
child?"
"Yes, yes," she replied, faintly; "give me a drink."
He turned hastily toward the table, feeling so giddy he could scarcely
stand. A tiny vial, containing a clear, colorless liquid, attracted his
eye. He took it up and examined it, and setting his teeth hard together,
poured its contents into a glass. Then filling it with water he
approached the bed, and raising her head, pressed it to her lips. His
hand trembled so he spilt it on the quilt. The young girl lifted her
wild, troubled eyes, and fixed them on his face with a gaze so long and
steady that his own fell beneath it.
"Drink!" he said, hoarsely, still pressing it to her lips.
Without a word she obeyed, draining it to the last drop. Then laying her
back on the pillow, he drew the curtain and left the room.
Mrs. Oranmore was sitting, as she had sat all the evening, stern and
upright in her chair. She lifted her keen eyes as he entered, and
encountered a face so pallid and ghastly that she almost started. Doctor
Wiseman tottered rather than walked to a seat.
"Well?" she said, inquiringly.
"Well," he replied, hoarsely, "I have obeyed you."
"That _is_ well. But pray, Doctor Wiseman, take a glass of wine; you are
positively trembling like a whipped schoolboy. Go to the sideboard; nay,
do not hesitate; _it_ is not poisoned."
Her withering sneer did more toward reviving him than any wine could
have done. His excitement was gradually cooling down beneath those calm,
steady eyes, bent so contemptuously upon him.
He drank a glass of wine, and resumed his seat before the fire, watching
sullenly the dying embers.
"Well, you have performed your task?"
"I have, madam, and earned my reward."
"Not quite, doctor; the infant is yet to be disposed of."
"Must it die, too?"
"Yes, but not here. You must remove it, in any way you please, but death
is the safest, the surest."
"And why not here?"
"Because I do not wish it," she answered, haughtily; "that is enough for
you, sirrah! You must take the child away to-night."
"What shall I do with it?"
"Dolt! blockhead! have you no brains?" she said, passionately. "Are you
aware ten minutes' walk will bring you to the sea-side? Do you know the
waves refuse nothing, and tell no tales? Never hesitate, man! You have
gone too far to draw back. Think of the reward; one thousand dollars for
ten minutes' work! Tush, doctor! I protest, you're trembling like a
nervous girl."
"Is it not enough to make one tremble?" retorted the doctor, roused to
something like passion by her deriding tone; "two murders in one
night--is that _nothing_?"
"Pshaw! no--a sickly girl and a puling child more or less in the world
is no great loss. Hark!" she added, rising suddenly, as a wild, piercing
shriek of more than mortal agony broke from the room where Esther lay.
"Did you hear that?"
Hear it! The man's face was horribly ghastly and livid, as shriek after
shriek, wild, piercing, and shrill with anguish, burst upon his ear.
Great drops of perspiration stood on his brow--his teeth chattered as
though by an ague fit, and he trembled so perceptibly that he was forced
to grasp the chair for support.
Not so the woman. She stood calm, listening with perfect composure to
the agonizing cries, that were growing fainter and fainter each moment.
"It is well none of the servants are in this end of the house," she
said, quietly; "or those loud screams would be overheard, and might
give rise to disagreeable remarks."
Receiving no answer from her companion, she turned to him, and seeing
the look of horror on his ghastly face, her lip curled with involuntary
scorn. It was strange she could stand there so unmoved, knowing herself
to be a murderess, with the dying cries of her victim still ringing in
her ears.
They ceased at last--died away in a low, despairing moan, and then all
grew still. The deep, solemn silence was more appalling than her shrieks
had been, for they well knew they were stilled forever in death.
"All is over!" said Mrs. Oranmore, drawing a deep breath.
"Yes," was the answer, in a voice so hoarse and unnatural, that it
seemed to issue from the jaws of death.
Again she looked at him, and again the mocking smile curled her lip.
"Doctor," she said, quietly, "you are a greater coward than I ever took
you to be. I am going in now to see her--you had better follow me, if
you are not _afraid_."
How sardonic was the smile which accompanied these words. Stunned,
terrified as he was, it stung him, and he started after her from the
room.
They entered the chamber of the invalid. Mrs. Oranmore walked to the
bed, drew back the curtains, and disclosed a frightful spectacle.
Half sitting, half lying, in a strange, distorted attitude she had
thrown herself into in her dying agony, her lips swollen and purple, her
eyes protruding, her hair torn fiercely out by the roots, as she had
clutched it in her fierce anguish, was Esther.
The straining eyeballs were ghastly to look upon--the once beautiful
face was now swollen and hideous, as she lay stark dead in that lonely
room.
Moment after moment passed away, while the murderers stood silently
gazing on their victim. The deep silence of midnight was around--nothing
was heard save the occasional drifting of the snow against the windows.
A stern, grave smile hovered on the lips of Mrs. Oranmore, as she gazed
on the convulsed face of the dead girl. Drawing the quilt at last over
her, she turned away, saying, mockingly:
"Where now, Esther Oranmore, is the beauty of which you were so proud?
This stark form and ghastly face is now all that remains of the beauty
and heiress of Squire Erliston. Such shall be the fate, sooner or later,
of all who dare to thwart me."
Her eyes flamed upon the shrinking man beside her, with an expression
that made him quake. A grim smile of self-satisfied power broke over her
dark face as she observed it, and her voice had a steely tone of
command, as she said:
"Now for the child. It must be immediately disposed of."
"And _she_?" said the doctor, pointing to the bed.
"I shall attend to that."
"If you like, madam, I will save you the trouble."
"No, sir," she replied, sharply; "though in life my enemy, her remains
shall never be given up to the dissecting-knife. I have not forgotten
she is a gentleman's daughter, and as such she shall be interred. Now
you may go. Wrap the child in this, and--_return without her_!"
"You shall be obeyed, madam," said Doctor Wiseman, catching the
infection of her reckless spirit. He stooped and raised the infant, who
was still in a deep sleep.
Muffling it carefully in the shawl, he followed the lady from the room,
and cautiously quitted the house.
The storm had now passed away; the piercing wind had died out, and the
midnight moon sailed in unclouded majesty through the deep blue sky,
studded with myriads of burning stars.
The cool night air restored him completely to himself.
Holding the still sleeping infant closer in his arms, he hurried on,
until he stood on the sloping bank commanding a view of the bay.
The tide was rising. The waves came splashing in on the beach--the white
foam gleaming coldly brilliant in the moonlight. The waters beyond
looked cold, and sluggish, and dark--moaning in a strange, dreary way as
they swept over the rocks. How _could_ he commit the slumbering infant
to those merciless waves? Depraved and guilty as he was, he hesitated.
It lay so confidingly in his arms, slumbering so sweetly, that his heart
smote him. Yet it must be done.
He descended carefully to the beach, and laying his living bundle on the
snowy sands, stood like Hagar, a distance off, to see it die.
In less than ten minutes, he knew, the waves would have washed it far
away.
As he stood, with set teeth and folded arms, the merry jingle of
approaching sleigh-bells broke upon his startled ear. They were
evidently approaching the place where he stood. Moved by a sudden
impulse of terror, he turned and fled from the spot.
Guilt is ever cowardly. He sped on, scarcely knowing whither he went,
until in his blind haste he ran against a watchman.
The unexpected shock sent both rolling over in the snow, which
considerably cooled the fever in Doctor Wiseman's blood. The indignant
"guardian of night," with an exclamation which wouldn't look well in
print, laid hold of the doctor's collar. But there was vigor in Doctor
Wiseman's dwarfed body, and strength in his long, lean arms; and with a
violent effort he wrenched himself free from the policeman's tenacious
grasp, and fled.
"Charley" started in pursuit, and seeing he would soon be overtaken, the
doctor suddenly darted into the high, dark portico of an
imposing-looking house, and soon had the satisfaction of beholding the
angry watchman tear past like a comet, in full pursuit.
CHAPTER III.
THE ASTROLOGER.
"He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men.
To him the book of night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret."--BYRON.
Having assured himself that all danger was past, Doctor Wiseman was
about to start from the building, when a sudden moonbeam fell on the
polished door-plate, and he started back to see the name it revealed.
"The astrologer, Ali Hamed!" he exclaimed. "Now what foul fiend has
driven me to his accursed den to-night? 'Tis said he can read the
future; and surely no man ever needed to know it more than I. Can it be
that the hand of destiny has driven me here, to show me what is yet to
come. Well, it is useless going home or attempting to sleep to-night;
so, Ali Hamed, I shall try what your magical black art can do for me."
He rang the bell sharply, but moment after moment passed, and no one
came. Losing all patience, he again rang a deafening peal, which echoed
and re-echoed through the house.
Presently the sound of footsteps clattering down stairs struck his ear,
and in a moment more the door was cautiously opened, and a dark, swarthy
face protruded through the opening. Seeing but one, he stood aside to
allow him to enter, and then securely locked and bolted the door.
"The astrologer, Ali Hamed, resides here?" said the doctor.
Accustomed to visitors at all hours of the day and night, the man
betrayed no surprise at the unreasonable time he had taken to inquire,
but answered quietly in the affirmative.
"Can I see him?"
"I think so; step in here one moment, and I will see."
He ushered Dr. Wiseman into a small and plainly furnished parlor, while
he again went up stairs. In a few moments he reappeared, and, bidding
his visitor follow him, led the way up the long staircase through a
spacious suite of apartments, and finally into a long, dark room, where
the astrologer usually received visitors.
The doctor glanced around with intense curiosity, not unmingled with
awe. The floor was painted black, and the walls were hung with dark
tapestry, covered with all manner of cabalistic figures. Skulls,
crucibles, magic mirrors, tame serpents, vipers, and all manner of
hideous things were scattered profusely around.
While the doctor still stood contemplating the strange things around
him, the door opened and the astrologer himself entered. He was an
imposing-looking personage, tall and majestic, with grave, Asiatic
features, and arrayed with Eastern magnificence. He bent his head with
grave dignity in return to the doctor's profound bow, and stood for a
few moments silently regarding him.
"You would know the future?" said the astrologer, at length, in his
slow, impressive voice.
"Such is my business here to-night."
"You would have your horoscope cast, probably?"
"Yes."
"Then give me the day and hour of your birth, and return to-morrow
morning."
"No, I cannot wait until then; I must know all to-night."
The astrologer bowed, and after many tedious preliminaries, directed the
doctor to quit the room until he should send for him. Dr. Wiseman then
entered one of the long suite of apartments through which he had passed,
and seated himself in a state of feverish anxiety to hear the result.
Some time elapsed ere the swarthy individual who had admitted him
presented himself at the door and announced that the astrologer was
ready to receive him.
Dr. Wiseman found Ali Hamed standing beside a smoking caldron, with his
cross-bones, and lizards, and mystic figures around him, awaiting his
entrance.
Not much given to credulity, the doctor determined to test his skill
before placing implicit belief in his predictions; and therefore,
bluntly announcing his skepticism, he demanded to know something of the
past.
"You are a widower, with one child," said the astrologer, calmly.
The doctor bowed assent.
"You are not rich, but avaricious; there is nothing you would not do for
money. You are liked by none; by nature you are treacherous, cunning,
and unscrupulous; your hands are dyed, and your heart is black with
crime; you----"
"Enough!" interrupted the doctor, turning as pale as his saffron visage
would permit; "no more of the past. What has the future in store for
me?"
"A life of disgrace, and death _on the scaffold_!"
A suppressed cry of horror burst from the white lips of the doctor, who
reeled as if struck by some sudden blow.
"To-night," continued the astrologer, unheeding the interruption, "_a
child has been born whose destiny shall be united with yours through
life; some strange, mystic tie will bind you together for a time. But
the hand of this child will yet bring your head to the halter._"
He paused. Dr. Wiseman stood stiff, rooted to the ground with horror.
"Such is your future; you may go," said the Egyptian, waving his hand.
With his blood freezing in his veins, with hands trembling and lips
palsied with horror, he quitted the house. An hour had scarcely passed
since his entrance; but that hour seemed to have added ten years to his
age. He felt not the cold, keen air as he slowly moved along, every
sense paralyzed by the appalling prediction he had just heard.
"Die on the scaffold!" His crime deserved it. But the bare thought made
his blood run cold. And through a child born that night he was to
perish! Was it the child of Esther Oranmore? Oh, absurd! it had been
swept far away by the waves long ere this. Whose, then, could it be?
There were more children born this Christmas Eve than that one; but how
could any one ever know what he had done? No one knew of it but Mrs.
Oranmore; and he well knew she would never tell.
He plunged blindly onward through the heaps of drifted snow, heeding
not, caring not, whither his steps wended. Once or twice he met a
watchman going his rounds, and he shrank away like the guilty thing that
he was, dreading lest the word "_murder_" should be stamped on his brow.
He thought with cowardly terror of the coming day, when every eye, he
fancied, would turn upon him with a look of suspicion.
Involuntarily he wandered to the sea-shore, and stood on the bank where
he had been one hour before. The waves were dashing now almost to his
feet; no trace of any living thing was to be seen around.
"It _has_ perished, then!" he exclaimed, with a feeling of intense
relief. "I knew it! I knew it! _It_, then, is not the child which is to
cause my death. But, pshaw! why do I credit all that _soi-disant_
prophet told me! Yet he spoke so truly of the past, I cannot avoid
believing him. Perish on the scaffold! Heavens! if I felt sure of it, I
would go mad. Ha! what is that? Can it be the ghastly white face of a
child?"
He leaned over and bent down to see, but nothing met his eye save the
white caps of the waves.
"Fool that I am!" he exclaimed, turning away impatiently. "Well might
stony Madam Oranmore deem me a coward did she see me now. I will hasten
back to her, and report the success of my mission."
He turned away, and strode in the direction of her house as fast as he
could walk over the frozen ground, quite unconscious of what was at that
same moment passing in another quarter of the city on that same eventful
night.
CHAPTER IV.
BARRY ORANMORE.
----"Pray for the dead--
Why for the dead, who are at rest?
Pray for the living, in whose breast
The struggle between right and wrong
Is raging, terrible and strong."--LONGFELLOW.
It was a luxuriously furnished apartment. A thick, soft carpet, where
blue violets peeped from glowing green leaves so naturally that one
involuntarily stooped to cull them, covered the floor. Rare old
paintings adorned the wall, and the cornices were fretted with gold. The
heavy crimson curtains shut out the sound of the wintry wind, and a
glowing coal fire shed a living, radiant glow over everything around.
The air was redolent of intoxicating perfume, breathing of summer and
sunshine. On the marble-topped center-table stood bottles and glasses, a
cigar-case, a smoking-cap, and a pair of elegant, silver-mounted
pistols. It was evidently a gentleman's room, judging by the disorder. A
beautiful marble Flora stood in one corner, arrayed in a gaudy
dressing-gown, and opposite stood a dainty little Peri adorned with a
beaver hat. Jupiter himself was there, with a violin suspended
gracefully around his neck, and Cupid was leaning against the wall,
heels uppermost, with bent bow, evidently taking deliberate aim at the
flies on the ceiling.
Among the many exquisite paintings hanging on the wall, there was one of
surpassing beauty; it represented a bleak hill-side, with a flock of
sheep grazing on the scanty herbage, a lowering, troubled sky above; and
one could almost see the fitful gusts of wind sighing over the gray
hill-tops. Standing erect was a young girl--a mere child in years--her
long golden hair streaming wildly in the breeze, her straw hat swinging
in her hand, her fair, bright face and large blue eyes raised with
mingled shyness and sauciness to a horseman bending over her, as if
speaking. His fiery steed seemed pawing with impatience; but his rider
held him with a firm hand. He was a tall, slight youth, with raven black
hair and eyes, and a dark, handsome face. There was a wild look about
the dark horseman and darker steed, reminding one of the Black Horseman
of the Hartz Mountains. Underneath was written, in a dashing masculine
hand, "The first meeting." There was something strikingly, vividly
life-like in the whole scene; even the characters--the slender girl,
with her pretty, piquant face, and the handsome, graceful rider--were
more like living beings than creations of fancy.
And--yes, standing by the fire, his arm resting on the mantel, his eyes
fixed on the hearth, stood the original of the picture. The same tall,
superb form; the same clear olive complexion; the same curling locks of
jet, and black eyes of fire; the same firm, proud mouth, shaded by a
thick black mustache--there he stood, his eyes riveted on the glowing
coals, his brow knit as though in deep and painful thought. Now and then
the muscles of his face would twitch, and his white hands involuntarily
clench at some passing thought.
At intervals the noise of doors shutting and opening would reach his
ear, and he would start as though he had received a galvanic shock, and
listen for a moment intently. Nothing could be heard but the crackling
of the fire at such times, and again he would relapse into gloomy
musing.
"What a fool I have been!" he exclaimed, at length between his clenched
teeth, as he shook back with fierce impatience his glossy hair, "to
burden myself with this girl! Dolt, idiot that I was, to allow myself to
be bewitched by her blue eyes and yellow hair! What demon could have
possessed me to make her my wife? My wife! Just fancy me presenting that
little blushing, shrinking Galway girl as my wife to my lady mother, or
to that princess of coquettes, Lizzie Erliston! I wish to heaven I had
blown my brains out instead of putting my head into such a confounded
noose--making myself the laughing-stock of all my gallant friends and
lady acquaintances! No, by heaven! they shall never laugh at Barry
Oranmore. Eveleen shall be sent back to her friends. They will be glad
enough to get her on any terms; and she will soon forget me, and be
happy tending her sheep once more. And yet--and yet--poor Eveleen!" he
said, suddenly, pausing before the picture, while his dark eyes filled
with a softer light, and his voice assumed a gentler tone; "she loves me
so well yet--far more than I do her. I hardly like the thought of
sending her away; but it cannot be helped. My mother's purse is running
low, I fear; Erliston's coffers must replenish it. Yes, there is no help
for it; Eveleen must go, and I must marry little Lizzie. Poor child; she
left home, and friends, and all for me; and it _does_ seem a villainous
act in me to desert her for another. But go she must; there is no
alternative."
He was walking up and down in his intense excitement--sometimes pausing
suddenly for a few moments, and then walking on faster than before. Thus
half an hour passed, during which he seemed to have formed some
determination; for his mouth grew stern, and his clear eyes cold and
calm, as he once more leaned against the mantel, and fell into thought.
Presently the door opened and a woman entered. She was a stout,
corpulent person, with coarse, bloated face, and small, bleared eyes. As
she entered, she cast an affectionate glance toward the brandy bottle on
the table--a glance which said plainly she would have no objection to
trying its quality. She was arrayed for the street, with a large cloak
enveloping her ample person, and a warm quilted hood tied over her
substantial double chin.
"Well, sir, I'll be movin', I reckon," said the woman, adjusting her
cloak. "The young lady's doing very nicely, and the baby's sleeping like
an angel. So they'll get along very well to-night without me."
The young man started at the sound of her voice, and, looking up, said
carelessly:
"Oh, it's you, is it? Are you for leaving?"
"Yes, sir; it's time I was home and to bed. I ain't used to bein' up
late nights now--don't agree with my constitution; it's sorter delicate.
Shouldn't wonder if I was fallin' into a decline."
The quizzical dark eyes of the young man surveyed the rotund person
before him, and in spite of himself he burst out laughing.
"Well, now, if you was in a decline yourself, you'd laugh t'other side
of your mouth, I reckon," said the offended matron. "S'pose you think
it's very funny laughing at a poor, lone 'oman, without chick nor child.
But I can tell you----"
"Ten thousand pardons, madam, for my offense," he interrupted,
courteously, though there was still a wicked twinkle in his eye. "Pray
sit down for a moment; I have something to say to you."
"Well, now, it don't seem exactly right to sit here with you at this
hour of the night. Howsomever, I will, to oblige you," and the worthy
dame placed her ample frame in a cushioned elbow-chair.
"Perhaps this argument may aid in overcoming your scruples," said the
young man, filling her a glass of wine, and throwing himself on a
lounge; "and now to business. You are a widow?"
"Yes, sir. My blessed husband died a martyr to his country--died in the
discharge of his duty. He was a custom-house officer, and felt it his
duty always to examine liquors before destroying them. Well, one day he
took too much, caught the devil-rum tremendous, and left me a
disconsolate widder. The coroner of the jury set onto him, and----"
"There, there! never mind particulars. You have no children?"
"No," said the old woman stiffly, rather offended by his unceremonious
interruption.
"If you were well paid, you would have no objection to taking one and
bringing it up as your own?" said the young man, speaking quietly,
though there was a look of restless anxiety in his fine eyes.
"Well, no; I'd have no objection, if----" and here she slapped her
pocket expressively, by way of finishing the sentence.
"Money shall be no object; but remember, the world must think it is your
own--_I_ am never to be troubled about it more."
"All right--I understand," said the nurse, nodding her head sagely.
"S'pose it's the little one in there?"
"It is. Can you take it away now?"
"To-night?"
"Yes."
"But laws! ain't it too cold and stormy. Better wait till to-morrow."
"No," was the quick and peremptory answer. "To-night, now, within this
very hour, it must be removed; and I am never to hear of it more."
"And the poor young lady? Seems sorter hard, now don't it? she'll take
on wonderfully, I'm feared."
A spasm of pain passed over his handsome face, and for a moment he was
silent. Then, looking up, he said, with brief sternness:
"It cannot be helped. You must go without disturbing her, and I will
break the news to her myself. Here is my purse for the present. What is
your address?"
The woman gave it.
"Very well, you shall hear from me regularly; but should we ever meet
again, in the street or elsewhere, you are not to know me, and you must
forget all that has transpired to-night."
"Hum!" said the fat widow, doubtfully.
"And now you had better depart. The storm has almost ceased, and the
night is passing away. Is Ev--is my wife awake?"
"No; I left her sleeping."
"So much the better. You can take _it_ with you without disturbing her.
Go."
The buxom widow arose and quitted the room. Oranmore lay on a lounge,
rigidly motionless, his face hidden by his hand. A fierce storm was
raging in his breast--"the struggle between right and wrong." Pride and
ambition struggled with love and remorse, but the fear of the world
conquered: and when the old woman re-entered, bearing a sleeping infant
in her arms, he looked up as composedly as herself.
"Pretty little dear," said the widow, wrapping the child in a thick
woolen shawl, "how nicely she sleeps! Very image of her mother, and
she's the beautifulest girl I ever saw in my life. I gave her some
paregoric to make her sleep till I go home. Well, good-night, sir. Our
business is over."
"Yes, good-night. Remember the secret; forget what has transpired
to-night, and your fortune is made. You will care for _it_"--and he
pointed to the child--"as though it were your own."
"Be sure I will, dear little duck. Who could help liking such a sweet,
pretty darling? I s'pose you'll come to see it sometimes, sir?"
"No. You can send me word of its welfare now and then. Go, madam, go."
The widow turned to leave the room, and, unobserved by the young man,
who had once more thrown himself on his face on the sofa, she seized a
well-filled brandy-flask and concealed it beneath her shawl.
Quitting the house, she walked as rapidly as her bulksome proportions
would permit over the snowy ground. The road leading to her home lay in
the direction of the sea-shore; and, as she reached the beach, she was
thoroughly chilled by the cold, in spite of her warm wrappings.
"It's as cold as the Arctic Ocean, and I've heerd say that's the coldest
country in the world. A drop of comfort won't come amiss just now. Lucky
I thought on't. This little monkey's as sound as a top. It's my 'pinion
that young gent's no better than he ought to be, to treat such a lovely
young lady in this fashion. Well, it's no business of mine, so's I'm
well paid. Lor! I hope I hain't gin it too much paregoric; wouldn't for
anything 'twould die. S'pose I'd get no more tin then. That's prime,"
she added, placing the flask to her lips and draining a long draught.
As the powerful fumes of the brandy arose to her head, the worthy lady's
senses became rather confused; and, falling rather than sitting on the
bank, the child, muffled like a mummy in its plaid, rolled from her arms
into a snow-wreath. At the same moment the loud ringing of bells and
the cry of "Fire! fire!" fell upon her ear. It roused her; and, in the
excitement of the moment forgetting her little charge, she sprang up as
well as she could, and, by a strange fascination, was soon involuntarily
drawn away to mingle with the crowd, who were hurrying in the direction
of her abode.
Scarcely five minutes before, Dr. Wiseman had quitted that very spot:
and there, within a few yards of each other, the two unconscious infants
lay, little knowing how singularly their future lives were to be
united--little dreaming how fatal an influence _one_ of them was yet to
wield over _him_.
Some time after, when the flames were extinguished and the crowd had
quitted the streets for their beds--when the unbroken silence of coming
morning had fallen over the city--the widow returned to seek for her
child.
But she sought in vain; the rising tide had swept over the bank, and was
again retreating sullenly to the sea.
Sobered by terror and remorse, the wretched woman trod up and down the
dreary, deserted snowy beach until morning broke; but she sought and
searched in vain. The child was gone.
CHAPTER V.
MOUNT SUNSET HALL.
"A jolly place, 'twas said, in days of old."--WORDSWORTH.
The jingle of the approaching sleigh-bells, which had frightened Dr.
Wiseman from the beach, had been unheard by the drunken nurse; but ten
minutes after she had left, a sleigh came slowly along the narrow,
slippery path.
It contained but two persons. One was an elderly woman, wrapped and
muffled in furs. A round, rosy, cheery face beamed out from a black
velvet bonnet, and two small, twinkling, merry gray eyes, lit up the
pleasantest countenance in the world.
Her companion, who sat in the driver's seat, was a tall, jolly-looking
darkey, with a pair of huge, rolling eyes, looking like a couple of
snow-drifts in a black ground. A towering fur cap ornamented the place
where the "wool ought to grow," and was the only portion of this son of
darkness which could be discovered for his voluminous wrappings.
The path was wet, slippery, and dangerous in the extreme. The horses
were restive, and a single false step would have overturned them into
the water.
"Missus Scour, if you please, missus, you'd better git out," said the
negro, reining in the horses, in evident alarm; "this yer's the wussest
road I'se ever trabeled. These wishious brutes 'll spill me and you, and
the sleigh, and then the Lor only knows what'll ever become of us."
"Do you think there's any danger, Jupiter?" said Mrs. Gower (for such
was the name her sable attendant had transformed into _Scour_), in a
voice of alarm.
"This road's sort o' 'spicious anyhow," replied Jupiter. "I'd 'vise you,
Missus Scour, mum, to get out and walk till we is past this yer beach.
'Sides the snow, this yer funnelly beach is full o' holes, an' if we got
upsot inter one of 'em, ole marse might whistle for you and me, and the
sleigh arter that!"
With much difficulty, and with any amount of whoaing, Jupiter managed to
stop the sleigh, and assisted stout Mrs. Gower to alight. This was no
easy job, for that worthy lady was rather unwieldy, and panted like a
stranded porpoise, as she slowly plunged through the wet snow-drifts.
Suddenly, above the jingling sleigh-bells, the wail of an infant met her
ear. She paused in amazement, and looked around. Again she heard
it--this time seemingly at her feet. She looked down and beheld a small,
dark bundle, lying amid the deep snow.
Once more the piteous cry met her ear, and stooping down, she raised the
little dark object in her arms.
Unfolding the shawl, she beheld the infant whose cries had first
arrested her ear.
"Good heavens! a baby exposed to this weather--left here to perish!"
exclaimed good Mrs. Gower, in horror. "Poor little thing, it's half
frozen. Who could have done so unnatural a deed?"
"Laws! Missus Scour, what ye got dar?" inquired Jupiter.
"A baby, Jupe! A poor little helpless infant whom some unnatural wretch
has left here to die!" exclaimed Mrs. Gower, with more indignation than
she had ever before felt in her life.
"Good Lor! so 'tis! What you gwine to do wid it, Missus Scour, mum?"
"Do with it?" said Mrs. Gower, looking at him in surprise. "Why, take it
with me, of course. You wouldn't have me leave the poor infant here to
perish, would you?"
"'Deed, Missus Scour, I wouldn't bring it 'long ef I was you. Jes'
'flect how tarin' mad ole marse 'll be 'bout it. Don't never want to see
no babies roun'. Deed, honey, you'd better take my 'vice an' leave it
whar it was," said Jupiter.
"What? Leave it here to die. I'm ashamed of you, Jupiter," said the old
lady, rebukingly.
"But Lor! Missus Scour! ole marse 'll trow it out de winder fust thing.
Shouldn't be s'prised, nudder, ef he'd wollop me for bringing it. Jes'
'flect upon it, Missus Scour, nobody can't put no 'pendence onto him, de
forsooken ole sinner. Trowed his 'fernal ole stick at me, t'other day,
and like to knock my brains out, jes' for nothin' at all. 'Deed, honey,
I wouldn't try sich a 'sperriment, no how."
"Now, Jupiter, you needn't say another word. My mind's made up, and I'm
going to keep this child, let 'ole marse' rage as he will. I'm just as
sure as I can be, that the Lord sent it to me, to-night, as a Christmas
gift, in place of my poor, dear Aurora, that he took to heaven," said
good Mrs. Gower, folding the wailing infant closer still to her warm,
motherly bosom.
"Sartin, missus, in course you knows best, but ef you'd only 'flect.
'Pears to me, ole marse 'll tar roun worser dan ever, when he sees it,
and discharge you in you 'sponsible ole age o' life 'count of it."
"And if he _does_ discharge me, Jupiter, after twenty years' service, I
have enough to support myself and this little one to the end of my life,
thank the Lord!" said Mrs. Gower, her honest, ruddy face all aglow with
generous enthusiasm.
"Well, I s'pose 'taint no sorter use talking," said Jupiter, with a
sigh, as he gathered up the reins; "but ef anything happens, jes 'member
I 'vised you of it 'forehand. Here we is on de road now, so you'd better
get in ef you's agoin' to take de little 'un wid you."
With considerable squeezing, and much panting, and some groaning, good
Mrs. Gower was assisted into the sleigh, and muffled up in the buffalo
robes.
Wrapping the child in her warm, fur-lined mantle, to protect it from the
chill night air, they sped merrily along over the hard, frozen ground.
Christmas morning dawned bright, sunshiny, and warm. The occupants of
the sleigh had long since left the city behind them, and were now
driving along the more open country. The keen, frosty air deepened the
rosy glow on Mrs. Gower's good-humored face. Warmly protected from the
cold, the baby lay sleeping sweetly in her arms, and even Jupiter's
sable face relaxed into a grin as he whistled "Coal Black Rose."
The sun was about three hours high when they drew up before a solitary
inn. And here Jupiter assisted Mrs. Gower into the house, while he
himself looked after his horses.
Mrs. Gower was shown by the hostess into the parlor, where a huge
wood-fire roared up the wide chimney. Removing the large shawl that
enveloped it, Mrs. Gower turned for the first time to examine her prize.
It did not differ much from other babies, save in being the tiniest
little creature that ever was seen; with small, pretty features, and an
unusual profusion of brown hair. As it awoke, it disclosed a pair of
large blue eyes--rather vacant-looking, it must be confessed--and
immediately set up a most vigorous squealing. Small as it was, it
evidently possessed lungs that would not have disgraced a newsboy, and
seemed bent upon fully exercising them; for in spite of Mrs. Gower's
cooing and kissing, it cried and screamed "and would not be comforted."
"Poor little dear, it's so hungry," said the good old lady, rocking it
gently. "What a pretty little darling it is. I'm _sure_ it looks like
little Aurora!"
"What is the matter with baby?" inquired the hostess, at this moment
entering.
"It's hungry, poor thing. Bring in some warm milk, please," replied Mrs.
Gower.
The milk was brought, and baby, like a sensible child, as it doubtless
was, did ample justice to it. Then rolling it up in the shawl, Mrs.
Gower placed it in the rocking-chair, and left it to its own
reflections, while she sat down to a comfortable breakfast of fragrant
coffee, hot rolls, and fried ham.
When breakfast was over Jupiter brought round the horses and sleigh, and
Mrs. Gower entered, holding her prize, and they drove off.
It was noon when they reached the end of their long journey, and entered
the little village of St. Mark's. Sloping upward from the bay on one
side, and encircled by a dense primeval forest on the other, the village
stood. St. Mark's was a great place in the eyes of its inhabitants, and
considered by them the only spot on the globe fit for rational beings to
live in. It was rather an unpretending-looking place, though, to
strangers, who sometimes came from the city to spend the hot summer
months there, in preference to any fashionable watering-place. It
contained a church, a school-house, a lecture-room, a post-office, and
an inn.
But the principal building, and pride of the village, was Mount Sunset
Hall. It stood upon a sloping eminence, which the villagers dignified
with the title of hill, but which in reality was no such thing. The hall
itself was a large, quaint, old mansion of gray stone, built in the
Elizabethan style, with high turrets, peaked gables, and long, high
windows. It was finely situated, commanding on one side a view of the
entire village and the bay, and on the other the dark pine forest and
far-spreading hills beyond. A carriage-path wound up toward the front,
through an avenue of magnificent horse chestnuts, now bare and leafless.
A wide porch, on which the sun seemed always shining, led into a long,
high hall, flanked on each side by doors, opening into the separate
apartments. A wide staircase of dark polished oak led to the upper
chambers of the old mansion.
The owner of Sunset Hall was Squire Erliston, the one great man of the
village, the supreme autocrat of St. Mark's. The squire was a rough,
gruff, choleric old bear, before whom children and poultry and other
inferior animals quaked in terror. He had been once given to high living
and riotous excesses, and Sunset Hall had then been a place of
drunkenness and debauchery. But these excesses at last brought on a
dangerous disease, and for a long time his life was despaired of; then
the squire awoke to a sense of his situation, took a "pious streak"--as
he called it himself--and registered a vow, that if it pleased
Providence not to deprive the world in general, and St. Marks in
particular, of so valuable an ornament as himself, he would eschew all
his evil deeds and meditate seriously on his latter end. Whether his
prayer was heard or not I cannot undertake to say; but certain it is the
squire recovered; and, casting over in his mind the ways and means by
which he could best do penance for his past sins, he resolved to go
through a course of Solomon's Proverbs, and--get married. Deeming it
best to make the greatest sacrifice first, he got married; and, after
the honeymoon was past, surprised his wife one day by taking down the
huge family Bible left him by his father, and reading the first chapter.
This he continued for a week--yawning fearfully all the time; but after
that he resolved to make his wife read them aloud to him, and thereby
save him the trouble.
"For," said the squire sagely, "what's the use of having a wife if she
can't make herself useful. 'A good wife's a crown to her husband,' as
Solomon says."
So Mrs. Erliston was commanded each morning to read one of the chapters
by way of morning prayers. The squire would stretch himself on a lounge,
light a cigar, lay his head on her lap, and prepare to listen. But
before the conclusion of the third verse Squire Erliston and his good
resolutions would be as sound as one of the Seven Sleepers.
When his meek little wife would hint at this, her worthy liege lord
would fly into a passion, and indignantly deny the assertion. _He_
asleep, indeed! Preposterous!--he had heard every word! And, in proof of
it, he vociferated every text he could remember, and insisted upon
making Solomon the author of them all. This habit he had retained
through life--often to the great amusement of his friends--setting the
most absurd phrases down to the charge of the Wise Monarch. His wife
died, leaving him with two daughters; the fate of the eldest, Esther, is
already known to the reader.
Up the carriage-road, in front, the sleigh containing our travelers
drove. Good Mrs. Gower--who for many years had been Squire Erliston's
housekeeper--alighted, and, passing through the long hall, entered a
cheerful-looking apartment known as the "housekeeper's room."
Seating herself in an elbow-chair to recover her breath, Mrs. Gower laid
the baby in her bed, and rang the bell. The summons was answered by a
tidy little darkey, who rushed in all of a flutter.
"Laws! Missus Scour, I's 'stonished, I is! Whar's de young 'un! Jupe say
you fotch one from the city."
"So I did; there it is on the bed."
"Sakes alive, ain't it a mite of a critter! Gemini! what'll old marse
say? Can't abide babies no how! 'spect he neber was a baby hisself!"
"Totty, you mustn't speak that way of your master. Remember, it's not
respectful," said Mrs. Gower, rebukingly.
"Oh, I'll 'member of it--'specially when I's near him, and he's got a
stick in his hand," said Totty, turning again to the baby, and eying it
as one might some natural curiosity. "Good Lor! ain't it a funny little
critter? What's its name, Miss Scour?"
"I intend calling it Aurora, after my poor little daughter," replied
Mrs. Gower, tears filling her eyes.
"_Roarer!_ Laws! ain't it funny? Heigh! dar's de bell. 'Spect it's for
me," said Totty, running off.
In a few moments she reappeared; and, shoving her curly head and ebony
phiz through the door, announced, in pompous tones, "dat marse wanted de
honor ob a few moments' private specification wid Missus Scour in de
parlor."
"Very well, Totty; stay in here and mind the baby until I come back,"
said Mrs. Gower, rising to obey.
Totty, nothing loth, seated herself by the bed and resumed the scrutiny
of the baby. Whether that young lady remarked the impertinent stare of
the darkey or not, it would be hard to say; for, having bent her whole
heart and soul on the desperate and rather cannibal-like task of
devouring her own little fists, she treated Totty with silent contempt.
Meantime, Mrs. Gower, with a look of firm determination, but with a
heart which, it must be owned, throbbed faster than usual, approached
the room wherein sat the lord and master of Sunset Hall. A gruff voice
shouted: "Come in!" in reply to her "tapping at the chamber-door;" and
good Mrs. Gower, in fear and trembling, entered the awful presence.
In a large easy-chair in the middle of the floor--his feet supported by
a high ottoman--reclined Squire Erliston. He was evidently about fifty
years of age, below the middle size, stout and squarely built, and of
ponderous proportions. His countenance was fat, purple, and bloated, as
if from high living and strong drink; and his short, thick, bull-like
neck could not fail to bring before the mind of the beholder most
unpleasant ideas of apoplexy. His little, round, popping eyes seemed in
danger of starting from their sockets; while the firm compression of his
square mouth betokened an unusual degree of obstinacy.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Gower. Fine day, this! Got home, I see. Shut the
door!--shut the door!--draughts always bring on the gout; so beware of
'em. Don't run into danger, or you'll perish in it, as Solomon says.
There! sit down, sit down, sit down!"
Repeating this request a very unnecessary number of times--for worthy
Mrs. Gower had immediately taken a seat on entering--Squire Erliston
adjusted his spectacles carefully on the bridge of his nose, and glanced
severely at his housekeeper over the top of them. That good lady sat
with her eyes fixed upon the carpet--her hands folded demurely in her
lap--the very personification of mingled dignity and good-nature.
"Hem! madam," began the squire.
"Yes, sir," replied Mrs. Gower, meekly.
"Jupe tells me--that is, he told me--I mean, ma'am, the short and long
of it is, you've brought a baby home with you--eh?"
"Yes, sir," replied the housekeeper.
"And how dare you, ma'am--how _dare_ you bring such a thing here?"
roared the squire, in a rage. "Don't you know I detest the whole
persuasion under twelve years of age? Yes, ma'am! you know it; and yet
you went and brought one here. 'The way of the transgressor is hard,' as
Solomon says; and I'll make it confoundedly hard for you if you don't
pitch the squalling brat this minute out of the window! D'ye hear that?"
"Yes, sir," replied Mrs. Gower, quietly.
"And why the deuce don't you go and do it, then--eh?"
"Because, Squire Erliston, I am resolved to keep the child," said Mrs.
Gower, firmly.
"What! _what!_ WHAT!" exclaimed the squire, speechless with mingled rage
and astonishment at the audacious reply.
"Yes, sir," reiterated Mrs. Gower, resolutely. "I consider that child
sent to me by Heaven, and I cannot part with it."
"Fudge! stuff! fiddlesticks! Sent to you by heaven, indeed! S'pose
heaven ever dropped a young one on the beach? Likely story!"
"Well, I consider it the same thing. Some one left it on the beach, and
heaven destined me to save it."
"Nonsense! no such thing! 'twas that stupid rascal, Jupe, making you get
out. I'll horsewhip him within an inch of his life for it!" roared the
old man, in a passion.
"I beg you will do no such thing, sir. It was no fault of Jupiter's. If
you insist on its quitting the house, there remains but one course for
me."
"Confound it, ma'am! you'd make a saint swear, as Solomon says. Pray
tell me what _is_ that course you speak of?"
"I must leave with it."
"What?" exclaimed the squire, perfectly aghast with amazement.
"I must leave with it!" repeated Mrs. Gower, rising from her seat, and
speaking quietly, but firmly.
"Sit down, ma'am--sit down, sit down! Oh, Lord! let me catch my breath!
Leave with it! Just say that over again, will you? I don't think I heard
right."
"Your ears have not deceived you, Squire Erliston. I repeat it, if that
child leaves, I leave, too!"
You should have seen Squire Erliston then, as he sat bolt upright, his
little round eyes ready to pop from their sockets with consternation,
staring at good Mrs. Gower much like a huge turkey gobbler. That good
lady stood complacently waiting, with her hand on the handle of the
door, for what was to come next.
She had not to long wait; for such a storm of rage burst upon her
devoted head, that anybody else would have fled in dismay. But she,
"good, easy soul," was quite accustomed to that sort of thing, and stood
gazing upon him as serenely as a well-fed Biddy might on an enraged
barn-yard chanticleer. And still the storm of abuse raged, interspersed
with numerous quotations from Solomon--by way, doubtless, of impressing
her that his wrath was righteous. And still Mrs. Gower stood serene and
unruffled by his terrible denunciations, looking as placid as a mountain
lake sleeping in the sunlight.
"Well, ma'am, well; what do you think of your conduct _now_?" exclaimed
the squire, when the violence of his rage was somewhat exhausted.
"Just what I did before, sir."
"And what was that, eh?--what was that?"
"That I have done right, sir; and that I will keep the child!"
"_You will?_" thundered the squire, in an awful voice.
"Yes, sir!" replied Mrs. Gower, slightly appalled by his terrible look,
but never flinching in her determination.
"You--you--you--abominable--female, you!" stammered the squire, unable
to speak calmly, from rage. Then he added: "Well, well! I won't get
excited--no, ma'am. You can keep the brat, ma'am! But mind you, if it
ever comes across me, I'll wring its neck for it as I would a
chicken's!"
"Then I _may_ keep the little darling?" said good Mrs. Gower,
gratefully. "I am sure I am much obliged, and----"
"There! there! there! Hold your tongue, ma'am! Don't let me hear another
word about it--the pest! the plague! Be off with you now, and send up
dinner. Let the turkey be overdone, or the pudding burned, at your
peril! 'Better a stalled ox with quietness, than a dry morsel,' as
Solomon says. Hurry up there, and ring for Lizzie!"
Mrs. Gower hastened from the room, chuckling at having got over the
difficulty so easily. And from that day forth, little Aurora, as her
kind benefactress called her, was domesticated at Mount Sunset Hall.
CHAPTER VI.
LIZZIE'S LOVER.
"Fond girl! no saint nor angel he
Who wooes thy young simplicity;
But one of earth's impassioned sons,
As warm in love, as fierce in ire,
As the best heart whose current runs
Full of the day-god's living fire."
FIRE WORSHIPERS.
The inn of St. Mark's was an old, brown, wooden house, with huge,
unpainted shutters, and great oak doors, that in summer lay always
invitingly open. It stood in the center of the village, with the forest
stretching away behind, and the beach spreading out in front. Over the
door swung a huge signboard, on which some rustic artist had endeavored
to paint an eagle, but which, unfortunately, more closely resembled a
frightened goose.
Within the "Eagle," as it was generally called, everything was
spotlessly neat and clean; for the landlord's pretty daughter was the
tidiest of housewives. The huge, oaken door in front, directly under the
above-mentioned signboard, opened into the bar-room, behind the counter
of which the worthy host sat, in his huge leathern chair, from "early
morn till dewy eve." Another door, at the farther end, opened into the
"big parlor," the pine floor of which was scrubbed as white as human
hands could make it; and the two high, square windows at either end
absolutely glittered with cleanliness. The wooden chairs were polished
till they shone, and never blazed a fire on a cleaner swept hearth than
that which now roared up the wide fire-place of the "Eagle."
It was a gusty January night. The wind came raw and cold over the
distant hills, now rising fierce and high, and anon dying away in low,
moaning sighs among the shivering trees. On the beach the waves came
tramping inward, their dull, hollow voices booming like distant thunder
on the ear.
But within the parlor of the "Eagle" the mirth and laughter were loud
and boisterous. Gathered around the blazing fire, drinking, smoking,
swearing, arguing, were fifteen or twenty men--drovers, farmers,
fishermen, and loafers.
"This yer's what _I_ calls comfortable," said a lusty drover, as he
raised a foaming mug of ale to his lips and drained it to the last drop.
"I swan to man if it ain't a rouser of a night," said a rather
good-looking young fellow, dressed in the coarse garb of a fisherman, as
a sudden gust of wind and hail came driving against the windows.
"Better here than out on the bay to-night, eh, Jim?" said the drover,
turning to the last speaker.
"Them's my sentiments," was the reply, as Jim filled his pipe.
"I reckon Jim hain't no objection to stayin' anywhere where Cassie is,"
remarked another, dryly.
"Who's taking my name in vain here?" called a clear, ringing voice, as a
young girl, of some eighteen years of age, entered. Below the middle
size, plump and round, with merry, black eyes, a complexion decidedly
brown, full, red lips, overflowing with fun and good-nature--such was
Cassie Fox, the pretty little hostess of the "Eagle."
Before any one could reply, an unusual noise in the bar-room fell upon
their ears. The next moment, Sally, the black maid-of-all-work, came
into the "big parlor," with mouth and eyes agape.
"Laws, misses," she said, addressing Cassie, "dar's a gemman--a rale
big-bug--out'n de bar-room; a 'spectable, 'sponsible, 'greeable gemman,
powerful hansom, wid brack eyes an' har, an' a carpet-bag!"
"Sakes alive!" ejaculated Cassie, dropping the tray, and turning to the
looking-glass; "he's handsome, and--_my hair's awfully mussed_!
Gracious! what brings him here, Sally?"
"Got cotch in de storm; 'deed he did, chile--heard him tell marse so my
own blessed self."
"Goodness!" again ejaculated the little hostess. "I'm all in a
flusterfication. Handsome! dear, dear!--my hair's all out of curl! Black
eyes!--I must unpin my dress. Nice hair! Jim Loker, take your legs out
of the fire, nobody wants you to make andirons of 'em."
"Cass! Cass, I say! Come here, you Cass!" called the voice of mine host
from the bar-room.
Cassie bustled out of the room and entered the bar. Old Giles Fox stood
respectfully before the stranger, a young man wrapped in a cloak, tall
and handsome, with a sort of dashing, reckless air, that well became
him.
"Here, Cass," said her father, "this gentleman's going to stay all
night. Show him into the best room, and get supper ready. Be spry, now."
"Yes, sir," said Cassie, demurely, courtesying before the handsome
stranger, who glanced half carelessly, half admiringly, at her pretty
face. "This way, sir, if you please."
The stranger followed her into the parlor, and encountered the battery
of a score of eyes fixed full upon him. He paused in the doorway and
glanced around.
"Beg pardon," he said, in the refined tone of a gentleman, "but I
thought this room was unoccupied. Can I not have a private apartment?"
he added, turning to Cassie.
"Oh, yes, to be sure," replied the little hostess; "step this way, sir,"
and Cassie ran up-stairs, followed by the new-comer, whose dark eyes had
already made a deep impression in the susceptible heart of Cassie.
He threw himself into a chair before the fire and fixed his eyes
thoughtfully on the glowing coals. Cassie, having placed his dripping
cloak before the fire to dry, ran down stairs, where he could distinctly
hear her shrill voice giving hasty orders to the servants.
Supper was at length brought in by Cassie, and the stranger fell to with
the readiness of one to whom a long journey has given an appetite.
"There," he said at last, pushing back his chair. "I think I have done
justice to your cookery, my dear--Cassie--isn't that what they call
you?"
"Yes, sir; after Cassiopia, who was queen in furrin parts long ago.
Efiofia, I think, was the name of the place," said Cassie, complacently.
"What?" said the stranger, repressing a laugh. "What do you say was the
name of the place?"
"Efiofia!" repeated Cassie, with emphasis.
"Ethiopia! Oh, I understand! And who named you after that fair queen,
who now resides among the stars?"
"Mother, of course, before she died," replied the namesake of that
Ethiopian queen. "She read about her in some book, and named me
accordingly."
The stranger smiled, and fixed his eyes steadily on the complacent face
of Cassie, with an expression of mingled amusement and curiosity. There
was a moment's pause, and then he asked:
"And what sort of place is St. Mark's--I mean, what sort of people are
there in it?"
"Oh, pretty nice," replied Cassie; "most all like those you saw down
stairs in the parlor."
"But, I mean the gentry."
"Oh, the big-bugs. Well, yes, there is some of 'em here. First, there's
the squire----"
"Squire who?" interrupted the stranger, with a look of interest.
"Squire Erliston, of course; he lives up there in a place called Mount
Sunset."
"Yes?" said the young man, inquiringly.
"Yes," repeated Cassiopia, "with his daughter, Miss Lizzie."
"Has he only one daughter?"
"That's all, now. He had two; but Miss Esther ran off with a wild young
fellow, an' I've hearn tell as how they were both dead, poor things! So
powerful handsome as they were too--'specially him."
"And Miss Lizzie?"
"Oh, yes. Well, you see she ain't married--she's more sense. She's awful
pretty, too, though she ain't a mite like Miss Esther was. Laws, she
might have bin married dozens of times, I'm sure, if she'd have all the
gents who want her. She's only been home for two or three months; she
was off somewhere to boardin'-school to larn to play the pianner and
make picters and sich."
"And the papa of these interesting damsels, what is he like?" inquired
the young man.
"He?--sakes alive! Why, he's the ugliest-tempered, crossest,
hatefullest, disagreeablest old snapping-turtle ever you saw. He's as
cross as two sticks, and as savage as a bear with a sore head. My stars
and garters! I'd sooner run a mile out of my way than meet him in the
street."
"Whew! pleasant, upon my word! Are all your country magnates as amiable
as Squire Erliston?"
"There ain't many more, 'cepting Doctor Nick Wiseman, and that queer old
witch, Miss Hagar."
"Has he any grown-up daughters?" inquired the stranger, carelessly.
Cassie paused, and regarded him with a peculiar look for an instant.
"Ahem!" she said, after a pause. "No; he's a widderer, with only one
child, a daughter, 'bout nine months old, and a nevvy a year or so
older. No, there ain't no young ladies--I mean real ladies--in the
village, 'cept Miss Lizzie Erliston."
He paid no attention to the meaning tone in which this was spoken, and
after lingering a few moments longer, Cassie took her leave, inwardly
wondering who the handsome and inquisitive stranger could be.
"Praps this'll tell," said Cassie, as she lifted the stranger's
portmanteau, and examined it carefully for name and initials. "Here it
is, I declare!" she exclaimed, as her eyes fell on the letters "B. O.,"
inscribed on the steel clasp. "B. O. I wonder what them stands for! 'B
O' _bo_. Shouldn't wonder if he was a beau. Sakes alive! what can his
name be and what can he want? Well, I ain't likely to tell anybody,
'cause I don't know myself. 'Has he got any grown-up darters?'" she
muttered, as the young man's question came again to her mind. "Maybe
he's a fortin' hunter. I've hern tell o' sich. Well, I hope Miss Lizzie
won't have anything to do with him if he is, and go throw herself away
on a graceless scamp like Miss Esther did. Well, I guess, if he goes
courtin' there, old Thunderclap will be in his wool, and--O, massy on
us!--if that Sally hain't let the fire go dead out, while I was talkin'
up-stairs with 'B. O.' Little black imp! won't I give it to her?"
The morning after the storm dawned clear and cold. All traces of the
preceding night's tempest had passed away, and the sun shone forth
brightly in a sky of clear, cloudless blue.
The handsome young stranger stood in the bar-room of the "Eagle," gazing
from the open door at the bay, sparkling and flashing in the sun's
light, and dotted all over with fishing-boats. Behind the counter sat
worthy Giles Fox, smoking his pipe placidly. From the interior of the
building came at intervals the voice of Cassie, scolding right and left
at "You Sally" and "little black imp."
Suddenly the stranger beheld, emerging from a forest path on the right
of the inn, a gentleman on horseback. He rode slowly, and the stranger
observed that all the villagers he encountered saluted him respectfully,
the men pulling off their hats, the women dropping profound courtesies,
and the children, on their way to school, by scampering in evident alarm
across meadows and fields.
As he drew rein before the inn-door, the stranger drew back. The old
gentleman entered and approached the bar.
"Good-morning, Giles," he said, addressing the proprietor of the "Eagle"
in a patronizing tone.
"Good-morning, squire--good-morning, sir. Fine day after the storm last
night," said the host, rising.
"Great deal of damage done last night--great deal," said the old man,
speaking rapidly, as was his custom: "one or two of the fishermen's huts
down by the shore washed completely away. Yes, _sir--r_! Careless fools!
Served 'em right. Always said it would happen--_I_ knew it. 'Coming
events cast their shadows afore,' as Solomon says."
The young stranger stepped forward and stood before him.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, with a slight bow; "have I the honor of
addressing Squire Erliston?"
"Yes, yes--to be sure you have; that's me. Yes, _sir_. Who're you,
eh?--who're you?" said the squire, staring at him with his round, bullet
eyes.
"If Squire Erliston will glance over this, it will answer his question,"
said the young man, presenting a letter.
The squire held the letter in his hand, and stared at him a moment
longer; then wiped his spectacles and adjusted them upon his nose,
opened the letter, and began to read.
The stranger stood, in his usual careless manner, leaning against the
counter, and watched him during its perusal.
"Lord bless me!" exclaimed the squire, as he finished the letter. "So
you're the son of my old friend, Oranmore? Who'd think it? You weren't
the size of a well-grown pup when I saw you last. And you're his son?
Well, well! Give us your hand. 'Who knows what a day may bring forth?'
as Solomon says. I'd as soon have thought of seeing the Khan of Tartary
here as you. Oranmore's son! Well, well, well! You're his very image--a
trifle better-looking. And you're Barry Oranmore? When did you come,
eh?--when did you come?"
"Last night, sir."
"Last night, in all the storm? Bless my soul! Why didn't you come up to
Mount Sunset? Eh, sir? Why didn't you come?"
"Really, sir, I feared----"
"Pooh!--pshaw!--nonsense!--no, you did not. 'Innocence is bold; but the
guilty flee-eth when no one pursues,' as Solomon says. What were you
afraid of? S'pose everybody told you I was a demon incarnate--confound
their impudence! But I ain't; no, _sir_! 'The devil's not as black as
he's painted,' as Solomon says--or if he didn't say it, he ought to."
"Indeed, sir, I should be sorry to think of my father's old friend in
any such way, I beg to assure you."
"No, you won't--haven't time. Come up to Mount Sunset--come, right off!
Must, sir--no excuse; Liz'll be delighted to see you. Come--come--come
along!"
"Since you insist upon it, squire, I shall do myself the pleasure of
accepting your invitation."
"Yes, yes--to be sure you will!" again interrupted the impatient squire.
"Bless my heart!--and you're little Barry. Well, well!"
"I am Barry, certainly," said the young man, smiling; "but whether the
adjective 'little' is well applied or not, I feel somewhat doubtful. I
have a dim recollection of measuring some six feet odd inches when I
left home."
"Ha, ha, ha!--to be sure! to be sure!" laughed the lusty old squire.
"Little!--by Jove! you're a head and shoulders taller than I am myself.
Yes, sir--true as gospel. 'Bad weeds grow fast,' as Solomon says. Lord!
_won't_ my Liz be astonished, though?"
"I hope your daughter is quite well, squire."
"Well!--you'd better believe it. My daughter is _never_ sick. No, sir;
got too much sense--specially Liz. Esther always _was_ a simpleton--ran
away, and all that, before she was out of her bibs and tuckers. Both
died--knew they would. 'The days of the transgressors shall be short on
the earth,' as Solomon says. But Liz has got her eye-teeth cut. Smart
girl, my Liz."
"I anticipate great pleasure in making the acquaintance of Miss
Erliston," said Oranmore, carelessly; "her beauty and accomplishments
have made her name familiar to me long ago."
"Yes, yes, Liz is good-looking--deucedly good-looking; very like what I
was at her age. Ah, you're laughing, you rascal! Well, I dare say I'm no
beauty _now_; but never mind that at present. 'Handsome is as handsome
does,' as Solomon says. Come, get your traps and come along. Giles, fly
round--we're in a hurry."
Thus adjured, Giles kindly consented to "fly round." All was soon ready;
and, after giving orders to have his portmanteau sent after him, young
Oranmore mounted his horse, and, accompanied by the squire, rode off
toward Mount Sunset Hall, the squire enlivening the way by numerous
quotations from Solomon.
On reaching the Hall, his host ushered him into the parlor, where,
seated at the piano, was the squire's daughter, Lizzie, singing, by some
singular coincidence:
"There's somebody coming to marry me--
There's somebody coming to woo."
Whether Miss Lizzie had seen that _somebody_ coming through the window,
I cannot say.
She rose abruptly from her seat as they entered, exclaiming:
"Oh, papa! I'm so glad you have come."
Then, seeing the stranger, she drew back with the prettiest affectation
of embarrassment in the world.
Lizzie Erliston was pretty--decidedly pretty--with a little round,
graceful figure, snowy complexion, rosebud lips, and sparkling,
vivacious blue eyes. Graceful, thoughtless, airy, dressy, and a most
finished flirt was little Lizzie.
"Mr. Oranmore, my daughter Liz; Liz, Mr. Oranmore, son of my old friend.
Fact! Hurry up breakfast now--I'm starving."
"I am delighted to welcome the son of papa's friend." said Lizzie,
courtesying to the handsome stranger, who returned the salutation with
easy gallantry.
Breakfast was brought in, and the trio, together with worthy Mrs.
Gower, were soon seated around the table.
"I am afraid, Mr. Oranmore, you will find it very dull here, after being
accustomed to the gayety of city life. Our village is the quietest place
in the world."
"Dull!" repeated Oranmore. "Did angels ever condescend to dwell on this
earth. I should say they had taken up their abode in St. Mark's."
He fixed his large dark eyes on her face, and bowed with a look of such
ardent yet respectful admiration as he spoke, that Lizzie blushed
"celestial, rosy red," and thought it the prettiest speech she had ever
heard.
"Fudge!" grunted the squire.
"Ah, Mr. Oranmore, I see you are a sad flatterer," said the little lady,
smilingly, buttering another roll.
"Not so, Miss Erliston. Dare I speak what I think, I should indeed be
deemed a flatterer," replied Oranmore, gallantly.
"Bah!" muttered the squire, with a look of intense disgust.
At this moment a child's shrill screams resounded in one of the rooms
above, growing louder and louder each moment.
"There--that's Aurora! Just listen to the little wretch!" exclaimed
Lizzie. "That child will be the death of us yet, with her horrid yells.
Her lungs must be made of cast-iron, or something harder, for she is
incessantly screaming."
The Squire darted an angry look at Mrs. Gower, who faltered out: She was
very sorry--that she had told Totty to be sure and keep her quiet--that
she didn't know what was the matter, she was sure----
"Ring the bell!" said the squire, savagely cutting her short. The
summons was answered by the little darkey, Totty.
"Well, Totty, what's the matter?" said Lizzie. "Don't you hear the baby
squalling there like a little tempest? Why don't you attend to her?"
"Lor! Miss Lizzie, 'twan't none o' my fault--'deed 'twan't," said the
little darkey. "Miss Roarer's a-roarin' 'cause she can't put her feet in
de sugar-bowl. 'Deed I can't 'vent her, to save my precious life. Nobody
can't do nothing wid dat 'ar little limb."
"I'll do something to _you_ you won't like if you don't make her stop!"
said the angry squire. "Be off with you now; and, if I hear another
word, I'll--I'll twist your neck for you!"
"Marse, I declare I can't stop her," said Totty, dodging in alarm toward
the door.
"Be off!" thundered the squire, in a rage, hurling a hot roll at the
black head of Totty, who adroitly dodged and vanished instanter.
"Of all diabolical inventions, young ones are the worst!" snappishly
exclaimed Squire Erliston, bringing down his fist on the table. "Pests!
plagues! abominations! Mrs. Gower, ma'am, if you don't give it a
sleeping draught when it takes to yelling, I'll--I'll--I'll----"
"By the way, Mr. Oranmore, as you are from the city," broke in Lizzie,
"perhaps you may have heard of some one there who has lost a child?"
"What--what did you say?--a child?" exclaimed Oranmore, starting so
suddenly and looking so wild, that all looked at him in surprise.
"Yes. But, dear me, how pale you look! Are you ill?"
"Ill! Oh, no; pray go on," said Oranmore, recovering himself by an
effort.
"Well; last Christmas eve, Mrs. Gower was returning from the city,
where she had been to make purchases, and taking the shore road, picked
up an infant on the beach, and brought it home. It is a wonder no
inquiries were made about it."
Barry Oranmore breathed freely again. It could not be _his_ child, for
he had seen the nurse before leaving the city; and she, fearing to lose
her annuity, had told him the child was alive and well: therefore it
must be another.
A week passed rapidly away at Sunset Hall. There were sails on the bay,
and rides over the hills, and shady forest walks, and drives through the
village, and long romantic rambles in the moonlight. And Lizzie Erliston
was in love. Was _he_? She thought so sometimes when his deep, dark eyes
would rest on her, and fill with softest languor as they wandered side
by side. But, then, had she not discovered his restlessness, his evident
longing to be away, though he still remained? Something in his conduct
saddened and troubled her; for she loved him as devotedly as it was in
the power of a nature essentially shallow and selfish to love. But the
dangerous spell of his voice and smile threw a glamour over her senses.
She could almost have loved his very faults, had she known them. And,
yielding herself to that witching spell, Lizzie Erliston, who had often
caught others, at last found herself caught.
CHAPTER VII.
THE CYPRESS WREATH.
"Bride, upon thy marriage-day,
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
On thy cheek like waving flame,
Flowed that crimson from the unrest,
Or the gladness of thy breast?"--HEMANS.
"Squire Erliston, can I have a few moments' private conversation with
you this morning?" said Oranmore, as he sought the squire, whom Mrs.
Gower was just helping to ensconce in his easy-chair.
"Certainly, certainly, my boy. Mrs. Gower, bring the rest of the pillows
by and by. 'Time for everything,' as Solomon says. Clear out now, ma'am,
while I attend to this young man's case."
Barry Oranmore stood in the middle of the floor, resting one hand
lightly on the back of a chair. Squire Erliston, propped up in an
easy-chair with pillows and cushions, and wearing an unusually benign
expression of countenance--caused, probably, by Miss Aurora's
extraordinary quietness on that morning.
"You have doubtless perceived, sir, my attentions to your daughter,"
went on the young man, in a tone that was almost careless. "Miss Lizzie,
I am happy to say, returns my affection; and, in short, sir, I have
asked this interview to solicit your daughter's hand."
He bowed slightly, and stood awaiting a reply. The squire jumped from
his seat, kicked one pillow to the other end of the room, waved another
above his head, and shouted:
"Bless my soul! it's just what I wanted! Give us your hand, my dear boy.
Solicit her hand! Take it, take it, with all my heart. If she had a
dozen of hands, you should have them all."
"I thank you sincerely, Squire Erliston. Believe me, it only needed your
consent to our union to fill my cup of _happiness_ to the brim."
His voice was low--almost scornful; and the emphasis upon "happiness"
was bitter, indeed. But the squire, in his delight, neither heeded nor
noticed.
"The wedding must come off immediately, my dear fellow. We'll have a
rousing one, and no mistake. I was afraid Liz might run off with some
penniless scamp, as Esther did; but now it's all right. Yes, the sooner
the wedding comes off the better. 'He who giveth not his daughter in
marriage, doeth well; but he who giveth her doeth better,' as Solomon
ought to know, seeing he had some thousands of 'em. Be off now, and
arrange with Lizzie the day for the wedding, while I take a sleep. When
it's all over, wake me up. There, go! Mrs. Gower! hallo! Mrs. Gower, I
say! come here with the pillows."
Oranmore hurried out, while Mrs. Gower hurried in--he to tell Lizzie of
the success of his mission, and she to prepare her master for the arms
of Morpheus.
That day fortnight was fixed upon as their marriage-day. The Bishop of
P---- was to visit St. Mark's, and during his advent in the village the
nuptials were to be celebrated.
And such a busy place as Sunset Hall became after the important fact was
announced! Poor Mrs. Gower lost, perceptibly, fifty pounds of flesh,
with running in and out, and up and down stairs. Old carpets and old
servants were turned out, and new curtains and French cooks turned in.
Carpets and custards, and ice-creams and Aurora's screams, and milliners
and feathers, and flowers and flounces, and jellies and jams, and
upholstery reigned supreme, until the squire swore by all the "fiends in
flames" that it was worse than pandemonium, and rushed from the place in
despair to seek refuge with Giles Fox, and smoke his pipe in peace at
the "Eagle."
Barry Oranmore, finding his bride so busily engaged superintending
jewels, and satins, and laces, as to be able to dispense with his
services, mounted his horse each day, and seldom returned before night.
And, amid all the bustle and confusion, no one noticed that he grew
thinner and paler day after day; nor the deep melancholy filling his
dark eyes; nor the bitter, self-scorning look his proud, handsome face
ever wore. They knew not how he paced up and down his room, night after
night, trying to still the sound of _one_ voice that was ever mournfully
calling his name. They knew not that when he quitted the
brilliantly-lighted rooms, and plunged into the deep, dark forest, it
was to shut out the sight of a sad, reproachful face, that ever haunted
him, day and night.
Lizzie was in her glory, flitting about like a bird from morning till
night. Such wonderful things as she had manufactured out of white satin
and Mechlin lace, and such confusion as she caused--flying through the
house, boxing the servants' ears, and lecturing Mrs. Gower and shaking
Aurora--who had leave now to yell to her heart's content--and turning
everything topsy-turvy, until the squire brought down his fist with a
thump, and declared that though Solomon had said there was a time for
everything, neither Solomon, nor any other man, could ever convince him
that there was a time allotted for such a racket and rumpus as _that_.
But out of chaos, long ago, was brought forth order; and the "eve before
the bridal" everything in Sunset Hall was restored to peace and
quietness once more. The rooms were perfectly dazzling with the glitter
of new furniture and the blaze of myriads of lusters. And such a crowd
as on the wedding night filled those splendid rooms! There was Mrs.
Gower, magnificent in brown velvet, preserved for state occasions like
the present, with such a miraculous combination of white ribbons and
lace on her head. There was the squire, edifying the public generally
with copious extracts from Solomon and some that were _not_ from
Solomon. There was Mrs. Oranmore, grim and gray as ever, moving like the
guilty shadow of a lost soul, through those gorgeous rooms and that
glittering crowd, with the miserable feeling at her heart, that her only
son was to be offered that night a sacrifice on the altar of her pride
and ambition. There was Doctor Wiseman, all legs and arms, as usual,
slinking among the guests. There was the bishop, a fat, pompous,
oily-looking gentleman, in full canonicals, waiting to tie the Gordian
knot.
There was a bustle near the door, a swaying to and fro of the crowd, and
the bridal party entered. Every voice was instantaneously hushed, every
eye was fixed upon them. How beautiful the bride looked, with her
elegant robes and gleaming jewels, her downcast eyes, and rose-flushed
cheeks, and half-smiling lips. The eyes of all the gentlemen present
were fixed wistfully upon her. And the eyes of the ladies wandered to
the bridegroom, with something very like a feeling of awe, as they saw
how pale and cold he was looking--how different from any bridegroom they
had ever seen before. Were his thoughts wandering to _another_ bridal,
in a land beyond the sea, with one for whose blue eyes and golden hair
he would _then_ willingly have surrendered fame, and wealth, and
ambition? And now, she who had left friends, and home, and country for
his sake, was deserted for another. Yet still that unknown, penniless
girl was dearer than all the world beside. Well might he look and feel
unlike a bridegroom, with but one image filling his heart, but one name
on his lips--"_Eveleen! Eveleen!_"
But no one there could read the heart, throbbing so tumultuously beneath
that cold, proud exterior. They passed through the long rooms--the
bishop stood before them--the service began. To _him_ it seemed like the
service for the dead--to _her_ it was the most delightful thing in the
world. There was fluttering of fans, flirting of perfumed handkerchiefs,
smiling lips and eyes, and
"With decorum all things carried;
Miss smiled, and blushed, and then was--married."
The ceremony was over, and Lizzie Erliston was Lizzie Erliston no
longer.
But just at that moment, when the crowd around were about to press
forward to offer their congratulations, a loud, ringing footstep, that
sounded as though shod with steel, was heard approaching. A moment more,
and an uninvited guest stood among them. The tall, thin, sharp, angular
figure of a woman past middle age, with a grim, weird, old-maidenish
face; a stiff, rustling dress of iron-gray; a black net cap over her
grizzled locks, and a tramp like that of a dragoon, completed the
external of this rather unprepossessing figure.
All fell back and made way for her, while a murmur: "Miss Hagar! What
brings Miss Hagar here?" passed through the room.
She advanced straight to where Lizzie stood, leaning proudly and fondly
on the arm of Oranmore, and drawing forth a wreath of mingled cypress
and dismal yew, laid it amid the orange blossoms on the head of the
bride.
With a shriek of superstitious terror, Lizzie tore the ominous wreath
from her head, and flung it on the floor. Heeding not the action, the
woman raised her long, gaunt, fleshless arm like an inspired sibyl, and
chanted in a voice so wild and dreary, that every heart stood still:
"Oh, bride! woe to thee!
Ere the spring leaves deck the tree,
Those locks you now with jewels twine
Shall wear this cypress wreath of mine."
Then striding through the awe-struck crowd, she passed out and
disappeared.
Faint and sick with terror, Lizzie hid her face in the arm that
supported her. A moment's silence ensued, broken by the squire, who came
stamping along, exclaiming:
"Hallo! what's the matter here! Have either of these good people
repented of their bargain, already. 'Better late than never,' as Solomon
says."
"It was only my sister Hagar, who came here to predict fortunes, as
usual," said Doctor Wiseman, with an uneasy attempt at a laugh, "and
succeeded in scaring Miss Lizzie--Mrs. Oranmore, I mean--half out of her
wits."
"Pooh! pooh! is that all. Liz, don't be such a little fool! There goes
the music. Let every youngster be off, on penalty of death, to the
dancing-room. 'Time to dance,' as Solomon says, and if it's not at
weddings, I'd like to know when it is. Clear!"
Thus adjured, with a great deal of laughing and chatting, the company
dispersed. The folding-doors flew open, and merry feet were soon
tripping gayly to the music, and flirting, and laughing, and
love-making, and ice-creams were soon at their height, and Lizzie, as
she floated airily around the room in the waltz, soon forgot all about
Miss Hagar's prediction. Barry Oranmore, by an effort, shook off his
gloom, and laughed with the merriest, and waltzed with his bride, and
the pretty bride-maids; and all the time his heart was far away with
that haunting shape that had stood by his side all the night.
* * * * *
A month had passed away. Their bridal tour had been a short one, and the
newly wedded pair had returned to Sunset Hall. And Lizzie was at last
beginning to open her eyes, and wonder what ailed her husband. So
silent, so absent, so restless, growing more and more so day after day.
His long rides over the hills were now taken alone; and he would only
return to lie on a lounge in some darkened room, with his face hidden
from view by his long, neglected locks. At first she pouted a little at
this; but seeing it produced no effect, she at last concluded to let him
have his own way, and she would take hers. So evening after evening,
while he lay alone, so still and motionless, in his darkened chamber,
Lizzie frequented parties and _soirees_, giving plausible excuses for
her husband's absence, and was the gayest of the gay.
One morning, returning with the gray dawn, from an unusually brilliant
_soiree_, she inquired for her husband, and learned that, half an hour
before, he had called for his horse and ridden off. This did not
surprise her, for it had often happened so before; so, without giving
the matter a second thought, she flung herself on her bed, and fell fast
asleep.
Half an hour after the sound of many feet, and a confused murmur of many
voices below, fell on her ear.
Wondering what it could mean, she raised herself on her elbow to
listen, when the door was burst open; and Totty, gray, gasping,
horror-stricken, stood before her.
"Totty, what in the name of heaven is the matter!" exclaimed Lizzie, in
surprise and alarm.
"Oh, missus! Oh, missus!" were the only words the frightened negress
could utter.
"Merciful heaven! what has happened?" exclaimed Lizzie, springing to her
feet, in undefined terror. "Totty, Totty, tell me, or I shall go and
see."
"Oh, Miss Lizzie! Oh, Miss Lizzie!" cried the girl, falling on her
knees, "for de dear Lord's sake, don't go. Oh, Miss Lizzie, it's too
drefful to tell! It would kill you!"
With a wild cry, Lizzie snatched her robe from the clinging hands that
held it, and fled from the room down the long staircase. There was a
crowd round the parlor door; all the servants were collected there, and
inside she could see many of the neighbors gathered. She strove to force
her way through the throng of appalled servants, who mechanically made
way for her to pass.
"Keep her back--keep her back, I tell you," cried the voice of Dr.
Wiseman, "would you kill her?"
A score of hands were extended to keep her back, but they were too late.
She had entered, and a sight met her eyes that sent the blood curdling
with horror to her heart. A wild, terrific shriek rang through the
house, as she threw up both arms and fell, in strong convulsions, on the
floor.
CHAPTER VIII.
Gipsy.
"A little, wild-eyed, tawny child,
A fairy sprite, untamed and wild,
Like to no one save herself,
A laughing, mocking, gipsy elf."
Year after year glides away, and we wonder vaguely that they can have
passed. On our way to the grave we may meet many troubles, but time
obliterates them all, and we learn to laugh and talk as merrily again as
though the grass was not growing between our face and one we could never
love enough. But such is life.
Ten years have passed away at St. Mark's since the close of our last
chapter; ten years of dull, tedious monotony. The terrible sight that
had met Lizzie Oranmore's eyes that morning, was the dead form of her
young husband. He had been riding along at his usual reckless, headlong
pace, and had been thrown from his horse and killed.
Under the greensward in the village church-yard, they laid his
world-weary form to rest, with only the name inscribed on the cold,
white marble to tell he had ever existed. And no one dreamed of the
youthful romance that had darkened all the life of Barry Oranmore. Lying
on the still heart, that had once beat so tumultuously, they found the
miniature of a fair young face and a long tress of sunny hair. Wondering
silently to whom they belonged, good Mrs. Gower laid them aside, little
dreaming of what they were one day to discover.
Lizzie, with her usual impulsiveness, wept and sobbed for a time
inconsolably. But it was not in her shallow, thoughtless nature to
grieve long for any one; and ere a year had passed, she laughed as gayly
and sang as merrily as ever.
Sometimes, it may be, when her child--her boy--would look up in her face
with the large dark eyes of him who had once stolen her girlish heart
away, tears for a moment would weigh down her golden eyelashes; but the
next instant the passing memory was forgotten, and her laugh again rang
out merry and clear.
And so the ten years had passed, and no change had taken place at Sunset
Hall save that it was far from being the quiet place it had been
formerly.
Has the reader forgotten Aurora, the little foundling of yelling
notoriety? If so, it is no fault of hers, for that shrill-voiced young
lady never allowed herself to be pushed aside to make room for any one.
Those ten years at least made a change in her.
See her now, as she stands with her dog by her side, for a moment, to
rest, in the quaint old porch fronting Sunset Hill. She has been romping
with Lion this morning, and now, panting and breathless, she pauses for
an instant to prepare for a fresh race. There she stands! A little,
slight, wiry, agile figure, a little thin, dark, but bright and
sparkling face, with small, irregular features, never for a moment at
rest. With a shower of short, crisp, dark curls streaming in the breeze,
every shining ring dancing with life, and fire, and mirth, and mischief.
And with such eyes, looking in her face you forgot every other feature
gazing in those "bonny wells of brown," that seemed fairly scintillating
wickedness. How they did dance, and flash, and sparkle, with youth, and
glee, and irrepressible fun--albeit the darker flame that now and then
leaped from their shining depths bespoke a wild, fierce spirit, untamed
and daring, slumbering in her heart, quiet and unaroused as yet, but
which would one day burst forth, scathing, blighting all on whom it
fell.
And such is Aurora Gower. A wild, dark, elfish changeling, not at all
pretty, but the most bewitching sprite withal, that ever kept a
household in confusion. Continually getting into scrapes and making
mischief, and doing deeds that would have been unpardonable in any one
else, Aurora, in some mysterious way of her own, escaped censure, and
the most extravagant actions were passed over with the remark, that it
was "just like her--just what you might expect from a gipsy." Owing to
her dark skin and wild habits, "Gipsy" was the name by which Mrs.
Gower's _protegee_ was universally known. With every one she was a
favorite, for though always saucy, often impertinent, and invariably
provoking, it was impossible to be angry with a little fairy of a
creature whom they could almost hold up between their finger and thumb.
As for the burly old squire, he could as soon think of getting along
without his brandy as without Gipsy. For though they continually
quarreled, he abusing her unmercifully, and she retorting impudently,
yet, when Gipsy at the end would flounce out in a towering passion, she
was sure a few hours after to find a peace-offering from the old man, in
the shape of a costly gift, lying on her table. After some coaxing she
would consent to forgive him, and Squire Erliston and his little ward
would smoke the calumet of peace (figuratively speaking); but, alas! for
the short-lived truce--ere another hour the war of words would be raging
"fast and furious" once more.
Good Mrs. Gower zealously strove to impress on the wayward elf a
becoming respect for the head of the household; and sometimes, in a fit
of penitence, Aurora would promise "not to give Guardy any more bile,"
but being by nature woefully deficient in the bump of reverence, the
promise had never been kept; and at last the worthy housekeeper gave up
the task in despair.
And so Aurora was left pretty much to follow her "own sweet will," and
no one need wonder that she grew up the maddest, merriest elf that ever
danced in the moonlight. At the age of eleven she could ride with the
best horseman for miles around, hunt like a practiced sportsman, bring
down a bird on the wing with her unerring bullet, and manage a boat with
the smartest fisherman in St. Marks. Needle-work, dolls, and other
amusements suitable for her age, she regarded with the utmost contempt,
and with her curls streaming behind her, her hat swinging in her hand,
she might be seen flying about the village from morning till night,
always running, for she was too quick and impetuous to walk. In the
stormiest weather, when the winds were highest and the sea roughest, she
would leap into one of the fishermen's boats, and unheeding storm and
danger, go out with them, in spite of commands and entreaties to the
contrary, until danger and daring became with her second nature. But
while Aurora has been standing for her picture the rest of the family
have assembled in the breakfast-parlor of Mount Sunset Hall. Languidly
stretched on a sofa lay Lizzie Oranmore. Those ten years have made no
change in her; just the same rose-leaf complexion, the same round,
little graceful figure, the same coquettish airs and graces as when we
saw her last. She might readily have been taken for the elder sister of
her son, Louis, who stood by the window sketching the view before him.
There was a striking resemblance between Louis and his dead father; the
same clear, olive complexion, the same sable locks and bold black eyes,
the same scornful, curving upper lip, and the same hot, rash, impetuous
nature. But with all his fiery impetuosity he was candid, open and
generous, the soul of honor and frankness, but with a nature which,
according as it was trained, must be powerful for good or evil.
Sitting propped up in an easy-chair, with his gouty leg, swathed in
flannel, stretched on two chairs, was the squire, looking in no very
sweet frame of mind. The morning paper, yet damp from the press, lay
before him; but the squire's attention would wander from it every moment
to the door.
"Where's that little wretch this morning?" broke out the squire, at
last, throwing down his paper impatiently.
"I really can't say," replied Lizzie, opening her eyes languidly. "I saw
her racing over the hills this morning, with those dreadful dogs of
hers. I expect she will be back soon."
"And we must wait for her ladyship!" growled the squire. "I'll cane her
within an inch of her life if she doesn't learn to behave herself.
'Spare the child and spoil the rod,' as Solomon says."
"Here she comes!" exclaimed Louis, looking up. "Speak of Satan and he'll
appear."
"Satan! She's no Satan, I'd have you know, you young jackanapes!" said
the squire, angrily, for though always abusing the "little vixen,"
Aurora, himself, he would suffer no one else to do it.
"Look, look how she dashes along!" exclaimed Louis, with kindling eyes,
unheeding the reproof. "There! she has leaped her pony over the gate,
and now she is standing up in her saddle; and--bravo! well done, Gipsy!
She has actually sprung over black Jupe's head in a flying leap."
While he spoke Gipsy came running up the lawn toward the house, singing,
in a high, shrill voice, as she ran:
"He died long, long ago, long ago--
He had no hair on the top of his head,
The place where the wool ought to grow,
Lay down the shovel and the hoe-o-o,
Hang up----"
"Stop that, stop that, you vixen! Stop it, I tell you, or I'll hang
_you_ up!" said the squire, angrily. "Where do you learn those vulgar
doggerels?"
"Make 'em up, Guardy--every one of 'em. Ain't I a genius?"
"I don't believe it, you scapegrace."
"No wonder you don't, seeing there never was a genius in the family
before; but 'better late than never,' you know."
"None of your impertinence, miss. Give an account of yourself, if you
please. Where were you this morning? Answer me _that_!"
"Nowhere, sir."
"Don't tell stories, you little sinner. Where is nowhere?"
"Over to Doctor Spider's."
"Gipsy, my dear, why will you persist in calling Doctor Wiseman
nicknames?" remonstrated Lizzie.
"Why, Aunt Liz, because he's just like a spider, for all the world--all
legs," flippantly replied Gipsy.
"And what business had you there, monkey? Didn't I tell you not to go? I
thought I told you _never_ to go there!" said the squire, in rising
wrath.
"Know it, Guardy, and that's just the reason I went."
"Because I forbade you, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"You--you--you disobedient little hussy, you! Aren't you ashamed of
yourself?"
"Ashamed!--what of? I haven't got the gout in my leg."
"Gipsy, you dreadful child, hush!" said Lizzie, in alarm.
"Oh, let her go on! She's just as you taught her, madam. And as to you,
Miss Gipsy, or Aurora, or whatever your name is, let me tell you, the
gout is nothing to be ashamed of. It runs in the most respectable
families, miss."
"Lord, Guardy! What a pity I can't have it, too, and help to keep up the
respectability of the family!"
Louis turned to the window, and struggled violently with a laugh, which
he endeavored to change into a cough, and the laugh and cough meeting,
produced a choking sensation. This sent Gipsy to his aid, who, after
administering sundry thumps on his back with her little closed fists,
restored him to composure, and the squire returned to the charge.
"And now, to 'return to our mutton,' as Solomon says; or--hold on a
minute--was it Solomon who said that?"
The squire paused, and placed his finger reflectively on the point of
his nose, in deep thought; but being unable to decide, he looked up, and
went on:
"Yes, miss, as I was saying, what took you over to Deep Dale so early
this morning? Tell me that."
"Well, if I must, I must, I s'pose--so here goes."
"Hallo, Gipsy!" interrupted Louis. "Take care--you're making poetry."
"No, sir! I scorn the accusation!" said Gipsy, drawing herself up. "But,
Guardy, since I _must_ tell you, I went over to see--ahem!--Archie!"
"You did!" grunted Guardy. "Humph! humph! humph!"
"Don't take it so much to heart, Guardy. No use grieving--'specially as
the grief might settle in your poor afflicted leg--limb, I mean."
"And may I ask, young lady, what you could possibly want with him?" said
the squire, sternly.
"Oh, fifty things! He's my beau, you know."
"Your beau!--_your_ beau!--your BEAU! My conscience!"
"Yes, sir, we're engaged."
"You are? 'Oh, Jupiter,' as Solomon says. Pray, madam (for such I
presume you consider yourself), when will you be twelve years old?"
"Oh, as soon as I can. I don't want to be an old maid."
"So it seems, you confounded little Will-o'-the-wisp. And will you be
good enough to inform us how this precious engagement came about?" said
the squire, with a savage frown.
"With pleasure, sir. You see, we went out to gather grapes in the wood
one day, and we had a splendiferous time. And says I, 'Archie, ain't
this nice?'--and says he 'Yes'--and says I, 'Wouldn't it be nice if we'd
get married?'--and says he, 'Yes'--and says I, '_Will_ you have me,
though?'--and says he, 'Yes'--and says I----"
"'Ain't we a precious pair of fools?' and says he, 'Yes,'" interrupted
the squire, mimicking her. "Oh, you're a nice gal--you're a pretty young
lady!"
"Yes, ain't I, now? You and I are of one opinion there, exactly. Ain't
you proud of me?"
"_Proud_ of you, you barefaced little wretch! I'd like to twist your
neck for you!" thundered the squire.
"Better not, Guardy; you'd be hung for _man_-slaughter if you did, you
know."
"_You_ don't call yourself a man, I hope!" said Louis.
"Well, if I don't, I'm a girl--which is a thousand times nicer. And
speaking of girls, reminds me that Miss Hagar's got the dearest,
darlingest, _beautifulest_ little girl you ever set your eyes on."
"Miss Hagar?" they all exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes, to be sure. Law! you needn't look so astonished; this is a free
country. And why can't Miss Hagar have a little girl, if she wants to,
as well as anybody else, I'd like to know?" exclaimed Gipsy, rather
indignantly.
"To be sure," said Louis, who took the same view of the case as Gipsy.
"Where did she get it?--whose little girl is it?" inquired Lizzie,
slightly roused from her languor by the news.
"Don't know, I'm sure; nobody don't. She was off somewhere poking round
all day yesterday, and came home at night with this little girl. Oh,
Louis, she's such a dear little thing!"
"Is she?" said Louis, absently.
"Yes, indeed--with a face like double-refined moonlight, and long,
yellow hair, and blue eyes, and pink dress, and cheeks to match. She's
twice as pretty as Minette; and Miss Hagar's going to keep her, and
teach her to tell fortunes, I expect."
"I wonder Dr. Wiseman allows Miss Hagar to fill the house with little
beggars," said Lizzie.
"Oh, Spider's got nothing to do with it. Miss Hagar has money of her
own, and can keep her if she likes. Pity if she'd have to ask permission
of that 'thing of legs and arms,' everything she wants to do."
"Gipsy, my dear, you really must not speak so of Dr. Wiseman: it's
positively shocking," said the highly-scandalized Mrs. Oranmore.
"Well, I don't care; he _is_ a 'thing of legs and arms.' There, now!"
"What's the little girl's name, Gipsy?" inquired Louis.
"_Celeste_--isn't it pretty? And she--oh, she's a darling, and no
mistake. _Wouldn't_ I marry her if I was a man--maybe I wouldn't."
"What's her other name?"
"Got none--at least she said so; and, as I didn't like to tell her she
told a story, I asked Miss Hagar, and _she_ told me to mind my own
business; yes, she actually did. Nobody minds how they talk to me.
People haven't a bit of respect for me; and I have to put up with _sass_
from every one. I won't stand it much longer, either. There!"
"No, I wouldn't advise you to," said Louis. "Better _sit_ down; no use
in standing it."
"Wiseman's a fool if he lets that crazy tramp, his sister, support
beggars in his house," exclaimed the squire, in a threatening tone.
"Lunatics like her should not be allowed to go at large. He has no
business to permit it."
"I'd like to see him trying to stop it," said Gipsy. "I'd be in his
wool."
"_You!_" said the squire, contemptuously. "What could a little Tom Thumb
in petticoats, like you, do?"
"Look here, now, Guardy, don't call a lady names. When you speak of Tom
Thumb, you know, it's getting personal. What could I do? Why, I'd set
his house on fire some night about his ears, or some day, when out
shooting, a bullet might strike him accidentally on purpose. It takes me
to defend injured innocence," said Gipsy, getting up, and squaring-off
in an attitude of defiance, as she exclaimed: "Come on, old Wiseman, I'm
ready for you!"
"Well, I can't allow you to associate with beggars. You must never go to
Deep Dale again. I can't countenance his proceedings. If he choose to
make a fool of himself, it's no reason why I should do so too."
"None in the world, sir--especially as nature has saved you that
trouble."
"You audacious little demon, you! what do you mean?"
"Ahem! I was just observing, sir, that it's time for breakfast," said
Gipsy, demurely.
"Humph! humph! well, ring for Mrs. Gower, and hold your tongue."
"Sorry I can't oblige you, Guardy. But how can I hold my tongue and
eat?"
"I wish I could find something to take the edge off it; it's altogether
too sharp," growled the old man to himself.
Mrs. Gower, fat and good-natured as ever, entered at this moment; and,
as they assembled round the table, the squire--who, though he generally
got the worst of the argument, would never let Gipsy rest--again resumed
the subject.
"Mind, monkey, you're not to go to Deep Dale again; I forbid
you--positively forbid you."
"Lor! Guardy, you don't say so!"
"Don't be disrespectful, minx. If I'm your guardian, you shall obey me.
You heard me say so before, didn't you?"
"Why, yes, I think so; but, then, you say so many things, a body can't
be expected to remember them all. You _must_ be talking, you know; and
you might as well be saying that as anything else."
"But I am determined you shall obey me this time. Do you hear? At your
peril, minion, _dare_ to go there again!" thundered the squire.
"That very pretty, Guardy, won't you say it over again," replied the
tantalizing elf.
"Gipsy! oh, Gipsy, my dear!" chanted the ladies Gower and Oranmore, in a
horrified duet.
"You--you--you--little, yellow abomination you! You--you--skinny----"
"Squire Erliston," said Gipsy, drawing herself up with stately dignity,
"let me remind you, you are getting to be personal. How would you like
it if I called _you_--you--you red-faced old fright--you--you--you
gouty-legged----"
"There! there! that'll do," hastily interrupted the squire, while a
universal shout of laughter went round the table at the ludicrous manner
in which the little imp mimicked his blustering tone. "There, there!
don't say a word about it; but mind, if you dare to go to Dr. Wiseman's,
you'll rue it. Mind that."
"All right, sir; let me help you to another roll," said Gipsy, with her
sweetest smile, as she passed the plate to the old man, who looked, not
only daggers, but bowie-knives at the very least.
CHAPTER IX.
A STORM AT MOUNT SUNSET HALL.
"At this Sir Knight grew high in wrath,
And lifting hands and eyes up both,
Three times he smote his stomach stout,
From whence, at length, fierce words broke out."
HUDIBRAS.
"Totty! Totty! I say, Totty, where are you? I declare to screech, I
never saw such a provoking darkey in my life. Nobody never can find her
when she's wanted! Totty! Totty! hallo, Totty! I want you dreadfully,
it's a matter of life and death! If that girl doesn't pay more attention
to me, I'll--I'll discharge her; _I will_, so help me Jimmy Johnston!
Totty! Totty-y-y!" So called and shouted Gipsy, as she flew in and out,
and up and down stairs, banging doors after her with a noise that made
the old house ring, and scolding at the top of her voice all the time.
"Laws! Miss Roarer, here I is," said Totty, hurrying as fast as possible
into the presence of the little virago, to get rid of the noise.
"Oh, it's a wonder you came! I s'pose you'd rather be lounging down in
the kitchen than 'tending to your mistress. How dare you go away, when
you don't know what minute I may want you? Hey?"
"Good Lor! Miss Roarer, I only went down to de kitchen to get my
breakfas' 'long o' the res'. How you 'spec I's gwine to live 'thout
eatin'? You allers _does_ call jes' the contrariest time, allers----"
"Hold your tongue!" exclaimed her imperious little mistress; "don't
give me any of your _imperunce_! There, curl my hair, and put on my
pretty purple riding-habit, and make me just as pretty as ever you can.
Hurry up!"
"Make you pretty, indeed!" muttered the indignant Totty; "'deed, when de
Lord couldn't do it, 'taint very likely I can. Come 'long and keep
still, two or free minutes, if you can. I never knew such a res'less
little critter in all my life."
While Gipsy was standing as quietly as her fidgety nature would allow,
to have her hair curled, Mrs. Gower entered.
"Well, 'Rora, my dear, where are you going this morning, that you are
dressing in your best?" said Mrs. Gower, glancing at the gay purple
riding-habit--for dress was a thing Gipsy seldom troubled herself about.
"Why, aunty, where _would_ I be going; over to Spider's, of course."
"Oh, Gipsy, my dear, pray don't think of such a thing!" exclaimed the
good woman, in a tone of alarm. "Your guardian will be dreadfully
angry."
"Lor! aunty, I know that; there wouldn't be any fun in it if he wasn't,"
replied the elf.
"Oh, Aurora, child! you don't know what you're doing. Consider all he
has done for you, and how ungrateful it is of you to disobey him in this
manner. Now, he has set his heart on keeping you from Deep Dale (you
know he never liked the doctor nor his family), and he will be terribly,
frightfully angry if he finds you have disobeyed him. Ride over the
hills, go out sailing or shooting, but do not go there."
Gipsy, who had been yawning fearfully during this address, now jerked
herself away from Totty, and replied, impatiently:
"Well, _let_ him get frightfully angry; I'll get 'frightfully angry'
too, and so there will be a pair of us. Do you s'pose I'd miss seeing
that dear, sweet, little girl again, just because Guardy will stamp, and
fume, and roar, and scare all mankind into fits? Not I, indeed. Let him
come on, who's afraid," and Gipsy threw herself into a stage attitude,
and shouted the words in a voice that was quite imposing, coming as it
did from so small a body.
"Oh, Gipsy, child! consider," again began Mrs. Gower.
"Oh, aunty, dear! I won't consider, never did; don't agree with my
constitution, no how you can fix it. Archie told me one day when I was
doing something he considered a crazy trick, to 'consider.' Well, for
his sake, I tried to, and before ten minutes, aunty, I felt symptoms of
falling into a decline. There now!"
"Oh, my dear! my dear! you are incorrigible," sighed Mrs. Gower; "but
what would you do if your guardian some day turned you out of doors? You
have no claim on him, and he _might_ do it, you know, in a fit of
anger."
"If he did"--exclaimed Gipsy, springing up with flashing eyes.
"Well, and if he did, what would you do?"
"Why, I'd defy him to his face, and then I'd run off, and go to sea, and
make my fortune, and come back, and marry you--no, I couldn't do that,
but I'd marry Archie. Lor! I'd get along splendidly."
"Oh, Gipsy! Gipsy! rightly named Gipsy! how little you know what it is
to be friendless in the world, you poor little fairy you! Now, child, be
quiet, and talk sensibly to me for a few minutes."
"Oh, bother, aunty! I can't be quiet; and as to talking sensibly, why I
rather think I am doing that just now. There, now--now do, please,
bottle up that lecture you've got for me, and it'll keep, for I'm off!"
And darting past them, she ran down stairs, through the long hall, and
was flying toward the stables in a twinkling.
On her way she met our old friend, Jupiter.
"Hallo, Jupe! Oh, there you are! Go and saddle Mignonne _'mediately_. I
want him; quick, now!"
"Why, Miss Roarer, honey, I'se sorry for ter diserblige yer, chile, but
ole mas'r he tole me not to let yer get Minnin to-day," said Jupiter,
looking rather uneasily at the dark, wild, little face, and large,
lustrous eyes, in which a storm was fast brewing.
"Do you mean to say he told you not to let me have my pony?" she said,
or rather hissed, through her tightly-clenched teeth.
"Jes' so, Miss Roarer; he tell me so not ten minutes ago."
"Now, Jupiter, look here; you go right off and saddle Mignonne, or it'll
be the worse for you. D'ye hear?"
"Miss Roarer, I 'clare for't I dassent. Mas'r'll half kill me."
"And I'll _whole_ kill you if you don't," said Gipsy, with a wild flash
of her black eyes, as she sprang lightly on a high stone bench, and
raised her riding-whip over the head of the trembling darkey; "go, sir;
go right off and do as I tell you!"
"Laws! I can't--'deed chile! I can't----"
Whack! whack! whack! with no gentle hand went the whip across his
shoulders, interrupting his apology.
"There, you black rascal! will you dare to disobey your mistress again!"
Whack! whack! whack!" If you don't bring Mignonne out this minute, I'll
shoot you dead as a mackerel! There; does that argument overcome your
scruples?" whack! whack! _whack!_
With something between a yell and a howl, poor Jupiter sprung back, and
commenced rubbing his afflicted back.
"Will you go?" demanded Gipsy, raising her whip once more.
"Yes! yes! Who ever did see such a 'bolical little limb as dat ar. Ole
mas'r'll kill me, I knows he will," whimpered poor Jupiter as he slunk
away to the stables, closely followed by his vixenish little mistress,
still poising the dangerous whip.
Mignonne, a small, black, fleet-footed, spirited Arabian, was led forth,
pawing the ground and tossing his head, as impatient to be off, even, as
his young mistress.
"That's right, Jupe," said Gipsy, as she sprang into the saddle and
gathered up the reins; "but mind, for the future, never dare to disobey
_me_, no matter what anybody says. Mind, if you do, look out for a
pistol-ball, some night, through your head."
Jupiter, who had not the slightest doubt but what the mad-headed little
witch would do it as soon as not, began whimpering like a whipped
schoolboy. Between the Scylla of his master's wrath, and the Charybdis
of his willful little mistress, poor Jupiter knew not which way to
steer.
"Don't cry, Jupe--there's a good fellow," said Gipsy, touched by his
distress. "Keep out of your master's sight till I come back, and I'll
take all the blame upon myself. There, now--off we go, Mignonne!"
And waving her plumed hat above her head, with a shout of triumphant
defiance as she passed the house, Gipsy went galloping down the road
like a flash.
The sky, which all the morning had looked threatening, was rapidly
growing darker and darker. About half an hour after the departure of
Gipsy, the storm burst upon them in full fury. The wind howled fiercely
through the forest, the rain fell in torrents, the lightning flashed in
one continued sheet of blue electric flame, the thunder crashed peal
upon peal, until heaven and earth seemed rending asunder.
The frightened inmates of Sunset Hall were huddled together, shivering
with fear. The doors and windows were closed fast, and the servants,
gray with terror, were cowering in alarm down in the kitchen.
"Lor' have massy 'pon us! who ever seed sich lightnin'? 'Pears as though
all de worl' was 'luminated, and de las' day come!" said Jupiter, his
teeth chattering with terror.
"An' Miss Roarer, she's out in all de storm, an' ole mas'r don't know
it," said Totty. "She _would_ go, spite of all Missus Scour said. I
'clare to man, that dat ar rampin', tarryfyin' little limb's 'nuff to
drive one clar 'stracted. I ain't no peace night nor day 'long o' her
capers. Dar!"
"Won't we cotch it when mas'r finds out she's gone," said a
cunning-looking, curly-headed little darkey, whom Gipsy had nicknamed
Bob-o-link, with something like a chuckle; "good Lor! jes' see ole mas'r
a swearin' an' tearin' round', an' kickin' de dogs an' niggers, an'
smashin' de res' ob de furnitur'. Oh, Lor!" And evidently overcome by
the ludicrous scene which fancy had conjured up, Bob-o-link threw
himself back, and went off into a perfect convulsion of laughter, to the
horror of the rest.
While this discussion was going on below stairs, a far different scene
was enacting above.
At the first burst of the storm, Lizzie and Mrs. Gower hastened in
affright to the parlor, where the squire was peacefully snoring in his
arm-chair, and Louis was still finishing his sketch.
The noise and bustle of their entrance aroused the squire from his
slumbers, and after sundry short snorts he woke up, and seeing the
state of affairs, his first inquiry was for Gipsy.
"Where's that little abomination, now?" he abruptly demanded, in a tone
that denoted his temper was not improved by the sudden breaking up of
his nap.
All were silent. Mrs. Gower through fear, and the others through
ignorance.
"Where is she? where is she, I say?" thundered the squire. "Doesn't
somebody know?"
"Most likely up stairs somewhere," said Louis. "Shall I go and see?"
"No, you sha'n't 'go and see.' It's the duty of the women there to look
after her, but they don't do it. She might be lost, or murdered, or
killed, fifty times a day, for all they care. 'Who trusteth in the
ungodly shall be deceived,' as Solomon says. Ring that bell."
Louis obeyed; and in a few minutes Totty, quaking with terror, made her
appearance.
"Where's your young mistress? Where's Miss Gipsy, eh?" demanded the
squire, in an awful voice.
"Deed, mas'r, she's rode off. I couldn't stop her nohow, 'deed----"
"Rode off!" shouted the squire, as, forgetful of his gouty leg, he
sprang to his feet; "rode off in this storm? Villains! wretches! demons!
I'll murder every one of you! Out in this storm! Good Lord! Clear out,
every living soul of you, and if one of you return without her,
I'll--I'll blow his brains out!" roared the old man, purple with rage.
"Why, grandfather," said Louis, while the rest cowered with fear, "it is
not likely Gipsy is out exposed to the storm. There are many places of
shelter well-known to her among the hills, and there she will stay until
this hurricane is over. It would be impossible for any one to find her
now, even though they could ride through this storm."
"Silence!" thundered the squire; "they must find her! Here, Jupe, Jake,
Bob, and the rest of you, mount, and off in search of Miss Aurora over
the hills, and at the peril of your life, return without her. Be off!
go! vanish! and mind ye, be sure to bring her home."
"Law! mas'r, Miss Roarer ain't over de hills. She's gone over to Deep
Dale," said Totty.
"WHAT!" exclaimed the squire, pausing in his rage, aghast, thunderstruck
at the news.
"'Deed, Lord knows, mas'r, I couldn't stop her."
"You--you--you--diabolical imp you!" roared the old man, seizing his
crutch, and hurling it at her head, as Totty, in mortal alarm, dodged
and fled from the room. "Oh, the little demon! the little wretch! won't
I pay her for this, when I get hold of her! the--the disobedient,
ungrateful, undutiful hussy! I'll cane her within an inch of her life!
I'll lock her up on bread and water! I'll keep her in the house day and
night! I'll--oh, Lord, my leg," he exclaimed, with a groan, as he fell
back, powerless, between rage and despair, in his seat.
Mrs. Gower and Lizzie, still quaking with terror, drew farther into the
corner to escape his notice, while Louis bent still lower over his
drawing to hide a smile that was breaking over his face.
At this moment a fresh burst of rain and wind shook the doors and
windows of the old house, and with it the squire's rage broke out
afresh.
"Call Jupe! Be off, Louis, and tell him to ride over to Deep Dale this
instant, and bring that little fiend home! And tell him if he doesn't
return with her in less than half an hour, I'll break every bone in his
body! Go!"
Louis accordingly repaired to the kitchen and delivered the order to
poor Jupiter--who, bemoaning his hard fate in being obliged to serve so
whimsical a master, was forced to set out in the storm in search of the
capricious Gipsy.
Half an hour, three-quarters passed, and then Jupiter, soaking with
rain, and reeking with sweat, came galloping back; but like young
Lochinvar, immortalized in the song:
"He rode unattended and rode all alone,"
and gray, and shaking, and trembling with fear and expectation of the
"wrath which was to come," he presented himself before his master.
"Well, sir, where's Miss Gipsy?" shouted the old man, as he entered.
"Mas'r, I couldn't bring her, to save my precious life; she wouldn't
come, nohow. I tell her you wanted her in a desprit hurry; and she said,
s'posin' you waited till your hurry was over. I said you tole me not to
come home 'thout her; and she said, very well, I might stay all night,
if I liked, 'cause she warn't comin' home till to-morrer. I tole her you
was t'arin' mad; and she said, you'd better have patience, and smoke
your pipe. I couldn't do nothin' 'tall with her, so I left, an' come
back, an' dat's all." And without waiting for the burst of wrath which
he saw coming, Jupiter beat a precipitate retreat to the lower regions.
You should have seen the wrath of Squire Erliston then. How he stamped,
and raged, and swore, and threatened, until he nearly frightened Lizzie
into hysterics, used as she was to his fits of passion. And then, at
last, when utterly exhausted, he ordered the servants to go and prepare
a large, empty room, which had long been unused, as a prison for Gipsy,
upon her return. Everything was taken out of it, and here the squire
vowed she should remain until she had learned to obey him for the
future. Then, relapsing into sulky silence, he sat down, "nursing his
wrath to keep it warm," until the return of the little delinquent.
CHAPTER X.
MISS HAGAR.
"Let me gaze for a moment, that ere I die,
I may read thee, lady, a prophecy:
That brow may beam in glory awhile,
That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile;
But clouds shall darken that brow of snow,
And sorrows blight that bosom's glow."
--L. DAVISON.
Meantime, while the squire was throwing the household of Sunset Hall
into terror and consternation, the object of his wrath was enjoying
herself with audacious coolness at Deep Dale.
The family of Doctor Nicholas Wiseman consisted of one daughter, a year
or two older than Gipsy, a nephew called Archie Rivers, and a maiden
step-sister, Miss Hagar Dedley. The doctor, who was naturally grasping
and avaricious, would not have burdened himself with the care of those
two had it been anything out of his own pocket. The parents of Archie
Rivers had been tolerably wealthy, and at their death had left him quite
a fortune, and amply remunerated the doctor for taking charge of him
until he should be of age. Miss Hagar had a slender income, sufficient
for her wants, and was permitted a room in his house as long as she
should continue to take care of herself.
Deep Dale had once been the residence of a wealthy and aristocratic
family, but had by some unknown means passed from their hands to those
of Doctor Wiseman.
It was, as its name implied, a long, deep, sloping dale, with the forest
of St. Mark's towering darkly behind, and a wide, grassy lawn sloping
down from the front. The house itself was a long, low, irregular mansion
of gray sandstone, with a quaint, pleasant, old-fashioned look.
Evening was now approaching. The curtains were drawn, the lamps lighted,
and the family assembled in the plainly, almost scantily, furnished
sitting-room.
By the fire, in a large leathern arm-chair, sat our old acquaintance,
the doctor, with one long, lean leg crossed over the other, one eye
closed, and the other fixed so intently on the floor that he seemed to
be counting the threads in the carpet. Years have done anything but add
to his charms, his face never looked so much like yellow parchment as it
did then, his arms and legs were longer and skinnier-looking than ever,
and altogether, a more unprepossessing face could hardly have been
discovered.
By the table, knitting, sat Miss Hagar. Her tall, thin figure, and
grave, solemn face, made her look almost majestic, as, with her lips
firmly compressed, she knit away in grim silence. Unlike other
spinsters, she neither petted dogs nor cats, but had a most
unaccountable mania for fortune-telling, and had been, for years, the
seeress and sibyl of the whole neighborhood.
In a distant corner of the room sat the little _protegee_ of Miss Hagar,
with Gipsy on one side of her, and Archie Rivers on the other, regarding
her as though she were some sort of natural curiosity. And, truly, a
more lovely child could scarcely have been found.
She appeared to be about the same age as Gipsy, but was taller and more
graceful, with a beautifully rounded figure, not plump, like that of
most children, but slender and elegant, and lithe as a willow wand. A
small, fair, sweet face, with long, golden hair, and soft, dreamy eyes
of blue, and a smile like an angel's.
Such was Celeste!
Such a contrast as she was to Gipsy, as she sat with her little white
hands folded in her lap, the long golden lashes falling shyly over the
blue eyes; her low, sweet voice and timid manner, so still and gentle;
and her elfish companion, with her dark, bright face, her eager,
sparkling, restless eyes, her short, sable locks, and her every motion
so quick and startling, as to make one nervous watching her.
Archie Rivers, a merry, good-looking lad, with roguish blue eyes and a
laughing face, sat, alternately watching the fair, downcast face of
Celeste, and the piquant, gipsyish countenance of the other.
At the table sat Minnette Wiseman, a proud, superb-looking girl of
twelve. Her long, jet-black hair fell in glossy braids over her
shoulders; her elbows rested on the table; her chin supported by her
hands; her large, glittering black eyes fixed on Celeste, with a look of
fixed dislike and jealousy that was never to die out during life.
"And so you have no other name but Celeste," said Gipsy, trying to peer
under the drooping lashes resting on the blue-veined cheek. "Now, if
that isn't funny! Everybody has two names but you--even _me_. I have two
names."
"Yes, Gipsy Gower. There is something odd and elfinish in the very
name," said Archie, laughing.
"Elfinish? It's no such thing. It's a great deal prettier than yours,
Archie Rivers! And where did you live before you came here, Celeste?"
continued Gipsy, returning to the charge.
"With Aunt Katie," replied Celeste, softly.
"And where is she now?" went on Gipsy.
"Dead!" said the child, while her lip trembled, and a tear fell on the
little brown hand lying on her own.
"Do tell! and I've made you cry, too. Now, if that ain't too bad. Do you
know, Celeste, I never cried in my life?"
"Oh, what a fib!" exclaimed Archie. "You were the horridest young one to
cry ever I heard in my life. You did nothing but yell and roar from
morning till night."
"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" indignantly exclaimed Gipsy.
"I'm sure I was too sensible a baby to do anything of the kind. Anyway,
I have never cried since I can remember. And as to fear--were you ever
afraid?" she asked, suddenly, of Celeste.
"Oh, yes--often."
"Did you ever? Why, you look afraid now. Are you?"
"Yes."
"My! What of?"
"Of _you_," said Celeste, shrinking back, shyly, from her impetuous
little questioner.
"Oh, my stars and garters! Afraid of _me_, and after I've been so quiet
and good with her all the evening!" ejaculated Gipsy; while Archie, who
was blessed with a lively sense of the ridiculous, leaned back and
laughed heartily.
"Well, after that I'm never going to believe there's anything but
ingratitude in _this_ world," said Gipsy, with an emphasis on the
"_this_" which seemed to denote she _had_ met with gratitude in
another.
But tears filled the gentle eyes of Celeste, as she looked up, and said:
"Oh, I hope you're not angry with me. I didn't mean to offend you, I'm
sure. I'm _so_ sorry."
"Oh, it's no matter. Nobody minds what they say to me. I'm used to it.
But it's so funny you should be afraid. Why, I never was afraid in my
life."
"That's true enough, anyway," said Archie, with an assenting nod.
"There's Guardy now. Oh! won't he be awful when I get home--but laws!
who cares! I'll pay him off for it, if he makes a fuss. I sha'n't be in
his debt long, that's one comfort."
"Do you remember how dolefully Jupiter looked as he came in for you, all
dripping wet; and when you told him you wouldn't go, he----" and
overcome by the ludicrous recollection, Master Archie again fell back in
a paroxysm of laughter.
"What a fellow you are to laugh, Archie!" remarked Gipsy. "You astonish
me, I declare. Do you laugh much, Celeste?"
"No, not much."
"That's right--I don't laugh much either--I'm too dignified, you know;
but somehow I make other people laugh. There's Archie now, for
everlasting laughing; but Minnette--do you know I never saw her laugh
yet--that is, really laugh. She smiles sometimes; not a pleasant smile
either, but a scornful smile like. I say, Minnette," she added, raising
her voice, "what is the reason you never laugh?"
"None of your business," rudely replied Minnette.
"The Lord never intended her face for a smiling one," said Miss Hagar,
breaking in, suddenly. "And you, you poor little wild eaglet, who, a
moment ago, boasted you had never wept, you shall yet shed tears of
blood. The bird has its eyes put out with red-hot iron before it can be
made to sing sweetly; and so you, too, poor bird, must be blinded, even
though you should flutter and beat yourself to death, trying to break
through the bars of your cage."
"Humph! I'd like to see them trying to put my eyes out," said Gipsy. "I
guess I'd make them sing, and on the wrong side of their mouths, too--at
least, I think I should!"
"Oh, Miss Hagar, tell us our fortunes--you haven't done so this long
time," exclaimed Archie, jumping up. "Here is Gipsy wants to know hers,
and Celeste's, too; and as for me, I know the future must have something
splendid in store for so clever a fellow, and I'm anxious to know it
beforehand."
"Don't be too anxious," said Miss Hagar, fixing her gloomy eyes
prophetically on his eager, happy face; "troubles are soon enough when
they come, without wishing to forestall them."
"Why, Miss Hagar, you don't mean to say I'm to have troubles?" cried
Archie, laughing. "If they do come, I'll laugh in their face, and cry,
'Never surrender.' I don't believe, though, my troubles will be very
heavy."
"Yes, the heaviest troubles that man can ever know shall be thine," said
the oracle, in her deep, gloomy voice. "The day will come when despair,
instead of laughter, will fill your beaming eyes; when the smile shall
have left your lip, and the hue of health will give place to the dusky
glow of the grave. Yes, the day will come when the wrong you may not
quell shall cling to you like a garment of flame, crushing and
overwhelming you and all you love, in its fiery, burning shame. The day
will come when one for whom you would give your life shall desert you
for your deadliest enemy, and leave you to despair and woe. Such is the
fate I have read in the stars for you."
"La! Archie, what a nice time you're going to have," said the
incorrigible Gipsy, breaking the impressive silence that followed the
sibyl's words--"when all that comes to pass! It will be as good as a
play to you."
"Miss Hagar must have sat up all last night getting that pretty speech
by heart," said Minnette, fixing her mocking black eyes on the face of
the spinster. "How well she repeated it! She'd make her fortune on the
stage as a tragedy queen."
"Scoffer!" said the sibyl, turning her prophetic eyes on the deriding
face of the speaker, while her face darkened, and her stern mouth grew
sterner still. "One day that iron heart of thine shall melt; that heart,
which, as yet, is sealed with granite, shall feel every fiber drawn out
by the roots, to be cast at your feet quivering and bleeding, unvalued
and uncared for. Come hither, and let me read your future in your eyes."
"No, no!" said Minnette, shaking back, scornfully, her glossy black
hair. "Prate your old prophecies to the fools who believe you. I'll not
be among the number."
"Unbeliever, I heed it not!" said Miss Hagar as she rose slowly to her
feet; and the light of inspiration gathered in her eyes of gray, as,
swaying to and fro, she chanted, in a wild, dirge-like tone:
"Beware! beware! for the time will come--
A blighted heart, a ruined home.
In the dim future I foresee
A fate far worse than death for thee."
Her eyes were still riveted on the deriding face and bold, bright eyes,
that, in spite of all their boldness, quailed before her steady gaze.
"Good-gracious, Miss Hagar, if you haven't nearly frightened this little
atomy into fits!" said Gipsy. "I declare, of all the little cowards ever
was, she's the greatest! Now, if I thought it wouldn't scare the life
out of her, I'd have my fortune told. If everybody else is going to have
such pretty things happen to them, I don't see why I shouldn't, too."
"Come here, then, and let me read thy fate," said Miss Hagar. "The
spirit is upon me to-night, and it may never come more."
"All right. Archie, stop grinning and 'tend this little scary thing.
Now, go ahead, Miss Hagar."
The seeress looked down solemnly into the dark, piquant little face
upturned so gravely to her own; into the wicked brown eyes, twinkling
and glittering with such insufferable mischief and mirth; and, bending
her tall body down, she again chanted, in her dreary tone:
"Thou wast doomed from thy birth, oh, ill-fated child;
Like thy birthnight, thy life shall be stormy and wild;
There is blood on thine hand, there is death in thine eye,
And the one who best loves thee, _by thee shall he die_!"
"Whew! if that ain't pleasant! I always knew I'd be the death of
somebody!" exclaimed Gipsy. "Wonder who it is going to be? Shouldn't be
s'prised if 'twas Jupiter. I've been threatening to send him to Jericho
ever since I can remember. La! if it comes true, won't Minette, and
Archie and I be in a 'state of mind' one of these days! I say, Celeste,
come over here, and let's have a little more of the horrible. I begin to
like it."
"Yes, go, Celeste, go," said Archie, lifting her off her seat.
But Celeste, with a stifled cry of terror, covered her face with her
hands, and shrank back.
"Coward!" exclaimed Minnette, with a scornful flash of her black eyes.
"Little goose!" said Gipsy, rather contemptuously; "what are you afraid
of? Go! it won't hurt you."
"Oh, no, no!--no, no!--no, no!" cried the child, crouching farther back
in terror. "It's too dreadful. I can't listen to such awful things."
"Let her stay," said Miss Hagar, seating herself moodily. "Time enough
for her--poor, trembling dove!--to know the future when its storm-clouds
gather darkly over her head. Let her alone. One day you may all think of
my words to-night."
"There! there! don't make a fool of yourself any longer, Hagar,"
impatiently broke in the doctor. "Leave the little simpletons in peace,
and don't bother their brains with such stuff."
"Stuff!" repeated Miss Hagar, her eyes kindling with indignation. "Take
care; lest I tell _you_ a fate more awful still. I speak as I am
inspired; and no mortal man shall hinder me."
"Well, croak away," said her brother, angrily, "but never again in my
presence. I never knew such an old fool!" he muttered to himself in a
lower tone.
He started back almost in terror, as he ceased; for standing by his
side, with her eyes fairly blazing upon him with a wild, intense gaze,
was the elfish Gipsy. She looked so like some golden sprite--so small
and dark, with such an insufferable light in her burning eyes--that he
actually shrank in superstitious terror from her.
Without a word, she glided away, and joined Archie in the corner, who
was doing his best to cheer and amuse the timid Celeste.
During the rest of the evening, Gipsy was unusually silent and still;
and her little face would at times wear a puzzled, thoughtful look, all
unused to it.
"What in the world's got into you, Gipsy?" asked Archie, at length, in
surprise. "What are you looking so solemn about?"
"Archie," she said, looking up solemnly in his face, "am I _possessed_?"
"Possessed! Why, yes, I should say you were--possessed by the very
spirit of mischief!"
"Oh, Archie, it's not that. Don't you know it tells in the Bible about
people being possessed with demons? Now, Archie, do you think I am?"
"What a question! No; of course not, you little goose. Why?"
"Because when _he_," pointing to the doctor, "said what he did, I just
felt as if something within me was forcing me to catch him by the throat
and kill him. And, Archie, I could hardly keep from doing it; and I do
believe I'm possessed."
This answer seemed to Master Archie so comical that he went off into
another roar of laughter; and in the midst of it, he rolled off his seat
upon the floor--which event added to his paroxysm of delight.
The doctor growled out certain anathemas at this ill-timed mirth, and
ordered Master Rivers off to bed. Then Miss Hagar folded up her work,
and taking Celeste with her, sought her own room, where a little
trundle-bed had been prepared for the child. And Minnette--who, much
against her will, was to share her room with Gipsy, for whom she had no
particular love--got up and lit the night-lamp, and, followed, by the
willful fay, betook herself to rest.
The next morning dawned clear, sunshiny and bright. Immediately after
breakfast, Gipsy mounted Mignonne, and set out to encounter the storm
which she knew awaited her at Sunset Hall.
CHAPTER XI.
GIPSY OUTWITS THE SQUIRE.
"Then on his cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age;
Fierce he broke forth; 'And dar'st thou, then,
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?'"--MARMION.
Gipsy rode along, singing gayly, and thinking, with an inward chuckle,
of the towering rage which "Guardy" must be in. As she entered the yard
she encountered Jupiter, who looked upon her with eyes full of fear and
warning.
"Hallo, Jupe! I see you haven't 'shuffled off this mortal coil' yet, as
Louis says. I suppose you got a blowing up last night, for coming home
without me, eh?"
"Miss Roarer, honey, for mussy sake, don't 'front mas'r to-day,"
exclaimed Jupiter, with upraised hands and eyes; "dar's no tellin' what
he might do, chile. I 'vises you to go to bed an' say you's sick, or
somefin, caze he'd jes' as lief kill you as not, he's so t'arin' mad."
"Nonsense, you old simpleton! Do you think I'd tell such a lie? Let him
rage; I'll rage too, and keep him in countenance."
"Miss Roarer, if you does, dar'll be bloodshed, and den I'll be took up
for all--I knows dar will," said poor Jupiter, in a whimpering tone.
"Dis comes' o' livin' with ladies what ain't ladies, and old gen'lemen
what's got de old boy's temper in dem."
"Why, you old good-for-nothing, do you mean to say I'm not a lady!"
exclaimed Gipsy, indignantly.
"Jes' so, Miss Roarer, I don't care ef yer does whip me--dar! S'pose a
lady, a _real_ lady, would go for to shoot a poor nigger what ain't a
doing no harm to nobody, or go ridin' out all hours ob de night as _you_
do. No! stands to reason, dey wouldn't, an' dat's de trufe now, ef I
_is_ a good-for-nothin'. Dar!"
"You aggravating old Jupiter, you, I'll _dar_ you if you give me any
more of your impudence," said Gipsy, flourishing her whip over her head.
"Miss Roarer," began Jupiter, adroitly ducking his head to avoid a blow.
"Silence, sir! Don't 'Miss Roarer' me. Keep your advice till it's called
for, and take Mignonne off to the stables, an' rub him down well; and if
you leave one speck of dust on him, I'll leave you to guess what I'll do
to you." And so saying, Gipsy gathered up her riding-habit in her hand,
and ran up the broad step, singing at the top of her voice:
"Oh! whistle and I'll come to you, my lad,
Oh! whistle and I'll come to you, my lad;
Though Guardy and aunty, an' a' should go mad,
Just whistle an' I'll come to you, my lad."
"Gipsy, Gipsy, hush, child! Your guardian is dreadfully angry with you,
and will punish you very severely, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Gower,
suddenly appearing from the dining-room. "This reckless levity will make
matters worse if he hears you. Oh, Gipsy, how could you do such an
outrageous thing?"
"La, aunty! I haven't done any 'outrageous thing' that I know of."
"Oh, child! you know it was very wrong, _very_ wrong, of you, indeed, to
stay at Deep Dale all night against his express commands."
"Now, aunty, I don't see anything very wrong at all about it. I only
wanted to have a little fun."
"Fun! Oh! you provoking little goose! he'll punish you very severely,
I'm certain."
"Well, let him, then. I don't care. I'll pay him off for it some
time--see if I don't. What do you s'pose he'll do to me, aunty? Have me
tried by court-martial, or hold a coroner's inquest on top of me, or
what?"
"He is going to lock you up in that old lumber-room, up in the attic,
and keep you there on bread and water, he says."
"Well, now, I'll leave it to everybody, if that isn't barbarous. It's
just the way the stony-hearted fathers in the story-books do to their
daughters, when they fall in love, and then their beaus come, filled
with love and rope-ladders, and off they go through the window. I say,
aunty, is there any chance for me to get through the window?"
"No, indeed, they are fastened outside with wooden shutters and iron
bolts. There is no chance of escape, so you had best be very good and
penitent, and beg his pardon, and perhaps he may forgive you."
"Beg his pardon! Ha! ha! ha! aunty, I like that, wouldn't Archie laugh
if he heard it. Just fancy _me_, Gipsy Gower, down on my knees before
him, whimpering and snuffling, and a tear in each eye, like a small
potato, and begging his serene highness to forgive me, and I'll never do
it again. Oh! goodness gracious, just fancy what a scene it would be!"
"You provoking little minx! I am sure any other little girl would beg
her guardian's pardon, when she knew she did wrong."
"But I _don't_ know that I've did wrong. On the contrary, I know I've
did _right_; and I'm going to do it over again, the first
chance--there!"
"Oh, Gipsy!--child--you are perfectly incorrigible. I despair of ever
being able to do anything with you. As I told you before, I shouldn't be
surprised if your guardian turned you out of doors for your conduct."
"And as I told _you_ before, aunty, I would not want better fun. Archie
Rivers is going to West Point soon, and I'll go with him, and 'do my
country some service' in the next war."
"If he turned you out, Gipsy, it would break my heart," said Mrs. Gower,
plaintively.
"Yes, and I suppose it would break mine too, but I luckily don't happen
to have a heart," said Gipsy, who never by any chance could, as she
called it, "do the sentimental." "However, aunty, let's live in the
sublime hope that you'll break the necks of two or three hundred
chickens and geese, before you break your own heart yet. And I protest,
here comes Guardy, stamping and fuming up the lawn. Clear out, aunty,
for I expect he'll hurl the whole of the Proverbs of Solomon at my head,
and one of 'em might chance to hit you. Go, aunty, I want to fight my
own battles; and if I don't come off with drums beating and colors
flying, it'll be a caution! Hooray!"
And Gipsy waved her plumed hat above her head, and whirled round the
room in a defiant waltz.
She was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the squire, who,
thrusting both hands into his coat pockets, stood flaming with rage
before her; whereupon Gipsy, plunging her hands into the pockets of her
riding-habit, planted both feet firmly on the ground, and confronted him
with a dignified frown, and an awful expression of countenance
generally, and to his amazement, burst out with:
"You unprincipled, abandoned, benighted, befuddled old gentleman! how
dare you have the impudence, the effrontery, the brazenness, the
impertinence, the--the--everything-else! to show your face to me after
your outrageous, your unheard-of, your monstrous, your--yes, I will say
it--diabolical conduct yesterday! Yes, sir! I repeat it, sir--I'm amazed
at your effrontery, after sending a poor, unfortunate, friendless,
degenerate son of Africa through the tremendous rain, the roaring
lightning, the flashing thunder, the silent winds, in search of me, to
stand there, looking no more ashamed of yourself than if you weren't a
fair blot on the foul face of creation! Answer me, old gentleman, and
forever afterward hold thy peace!"
"You abominable little wretch! You incarnate little fiend, you! You
impish little imp, you! I'll thrash you within an inch of your life!"
roared the old man, purple with rage.
"Look out, Guardy, you'll completely founder the English language, if
you don't take care," interrupted Gipsy.
"You impudent little vixen! I'll make you repent yesterday's conduct,"
thundered the squire, catching her by the shoulder and shaking her till
she was breathless.
"Loo--loo--look here, old gentleman, do--do--don't you try that again!"
stuttered Gipsy, panting for breath, and wrenching herself, by a
powerful jerk, free from his grasp.
"Why didn't you come home when I sent for you? Answer me that, or I
won't leave a sound bone in your body. Now, then!"
"Well, Guardy, to tell the truth, it was because I didn't choose to.
Now, then!"
"You--you--you incomparable little impudence, I'll fairly murder you!"
shouted the squire, raising his hand in his rage to strike her a blow,
which would assuredly have killed her; but Gipsy adroitly dodged, and
his hand fell with stunning force on the hall table.
With something between a howl and a yell, he started after her as she
ran screaming with laughter; and seizing her in a corner, where she had
sunk down exhausted and powerless with her inward convulsions, he shook
her until he could shake her no longer.
"I'll lock you up! I'll turn you out of doors! I'll thrash you while I
am able to stand over you! No, I won't thrash a woman in my own house,
but I'll lock you up and starve you to death. I'll be hanged if I
don't!"
"You'll be hanged if you do, you mean."
"Come along; we'll see what effect hunger and solitary confinement will
have on your high spirits, my lady," said the squire, seizing her by the
arm and dragging her along.
"Guardy, if you do, my ghost'll haunt you every night, just as sure as
shooting," said Gipsy, solemnly.
"What do I care about you or your ghost! Come along. 'The unrighteous
shall not live out half their days,' as Solomon says; therefore it's
according to Scripture, and no fault of mine if you don't live long."
"Solomon was never locked up in a garret," said Gipsy, thrusting her
knuckles in her eyes and beginning to sob, "and he don't know anything
about it. It's real hateful of you to lock me up--now! But it's just
like you, you always were an ugly old wretch every way." Sob, sob, sob.
"That's right, talk away! You can talk and scold as much as you like to
the four bare walls presently," said the squire, dragging her along.
"You're a hateful old monster! I wish you were far enough--I just do!
and I don't care if I'm taken up for defamation of character--so, there!
Boo, hoo--a hoo--a hoo," sobbed, and wept, and scolded Gipsy, as the
squire, inwardly chuckling, led her to her place of captivity.
They reached it at length; a large empty room without a single article
of furniture, even without a chair. It was quite dark, too, for the
windows were both nailed up, and the room was situated in the remotest
portion of the building, where, let poor Gipsy cry and scream as she
pleased, she could not be heard.
On entering her prison, Gipsy ceased her sobs for a moment to glance
around, and her blank look of dismay at the aspect of her prison, threw
the squire into a fit of laughter.
"So," he chuckled, "you're caught at last. Now, here you may stay till
night, and I hope by that time I'll have taken a little of the mischief
out of you."
"And I'll have nothing to pass the time," wept Gipsy. "Mayn't I go down
stairs and get a book?"
"Ha! ha! ha! No. I rather think you mayn't. Perhaps I may bring you up
one by and by," said the squire, never stopping to think how Gipsy was
to read in the dark.
"Look up there on that shelf, I can't reach; there's one, I think," said
Gipsy, whose keen eye had caught sight of an old newspaper lying on the
spot indicated.
The squire made a step forward to reach it, and like an arrow sped from
a bow, at the same instant, Gipsy darted across the room, out through
the open door. Ere the squire could turn round, he heard the door slam
to, and he was caught in his own trap, while a triumphant shout, a
delighted "hurrah!" reached his ear from without.
The squire rushed frantically to the door, and shook, and pulled, and
swore, and threatened and shouted, to all of which Gipsy answered by
tantalizingly asking him whether he'd come out now, or wait till she
let him. Then, finding threats of no avail, he betook himself to
coaxing; and wheedled, and persuaded, and promised, and flattered, but
equally in vain, for Gipsy replied that she wouldn't if she could,
couldn't if she would, for that she had thrown the key as far as she
could pitch it, out of the window, among the shrubs in the
garden--where, as she wasn't in the habit of looking for needles in
hay-stacks, she thought it quite useless searching for it; and ended by
delivering him a lecture on the virtue of patience and the beauty of
Christian resignation. And after exhorting him to improve his temper, if
possible, during his confinement, as she was going over to spend the day
at Dr. Spider's and teach Miss Hagar's little girl to ride, she went off
and left him, stamping, and swearing, and foaming, in a manner quite
awful to listen to.
True to her word, Gipsy privately sought the stables, saddled Mignonne
herself, and rode off, without being observed, to spend the day at Deep
Dale. The absence of the squire was noticed; but it was supposed he had
ridden off on business after locking up Gipsy, and therefore it created
no surprise. As he had positively forbidden any one in the house to go
near her prison, no one went; and it was only when Gipsy returned home
late at night that she learned, to her surprise and alarm, he had not
yet been liberated. The door was forced open by Jupiter, and the squire
was found lying on the floor, having raged himself into a state that
quite prevented him from "murdering" Gipsy as he had threatened. Two or
three days elapsed before "Richard" became "himself again;" and night
and day Gipsy hovered over his bedside--the quietest, the most attentive
little nurse that ever was seen, quite unalarmed by his throwing the
pillow, the gruel and pill-boxes at her head every time she appeared in
his sight.
CHAPTER XII.
THE TIGRESS AND THE DOVE.
"Oh, wanton malice--deathful sport--
Could ye not spare my all?
But mark my words, on thy cold heart
A fiery doom shall fall."
In the golden glow of the morning, Minnette Wiseman stood at the door,
gazing out--not watching the radiant beauties of nature--not listening
to the sweet singing of the birds--not watching the waves flashing and
glittering in the sunlight--but nursing her own dark, fathomless
thoughts.
From the first moment of the coming of Celeste she had hated her, with a
deep, intense hatred, that was destined to be the one ruling passion of
her life. She was jealous of her beauty, angry to see her so petted and
caressed by every one, but too proud to betray it.
Pride and jealousy were her predominant passions; you could see them in
the haughty poise of her superb little head, in the dusky fire
smoldering in her glittering black eyes, in the scornful, curling upper
lip, in the erect carriage and proud step. In spite of her beauty no one
seemed to like Minnette, and she liked no one.
Among her schoolmates her superior talents won their admiration, but her
eagle ambition to surpass them all soon turned admiration into dislike.
But Minnette went haughtily on her way, living in the unknown world of
her dark, sullen thoughts, despising both them and the love she might
have won.
A week had passed since the coming of Celeste. Miss Hagar, feeling she
was not competent to undertake the instruction of such a shy, sensitive
little creature, wished to send her to school. The school to which
Minnette and Gipsy went (sometimes) was two miles distant, and taught by
the Sisters of Charity. Miss Hagar would have sent her there, but there
was no one she could go with. She mentioned this difficulty to her
brother.
"Can't she go with Minnette?" said the latter, impatiently.
"No, she sha'n't," said the amiable Minnette. "I'll have no such
whimpering cry-baby tagging after me. Let Madam Hagar go with her
darling herself if she likes."
"Just what I expected from you," said Miss Hagar, looking gloomingly in
the sullen face before her. "If the Lord doesn't punish you one day for
your hatred and hard-heartedness, it'll be because some of his creatures
will do it for him. Take my word for it."
"I don't care for you or your threats," said Minnette, angrily; "and I
_do_ hate your pet, old Miss Hagar, and I'll make everybody else hate
her if I can, too."
"Minnette, hold your tongue," called her father, angry at being
interrupted in his reading.
Minnette left the room, first casting a glance full of dislike and
contempt on Celeste, who sat in a remote corner, her hands over her
face, while the tears she struggled bravely to suppress fell in bright
drops through her taper fingers. Sob after sob swelled the bosom of the
sensitive child, on whose gentle heart the cruel words of Minnette had
fallen with crushing weight. Dr. Wiseman, after a few moments, too, left
the room, and Celeste, in her dark corner, wept unseen and uncared for.
Suddenly a light footstep entering the room startled her. Her hands
were gently removed from her tear-stained face, while a spirited voice
exclaimed:
"Hallo! Sissy! what's the matter? Has that kite-heart, Minnette, been
mocking you?"
"No-o-o!" faltered Celeste, looking up through her tears into the bright
face of Archie Rivers.
"What's the case, then? Something's wrong, I know. Tell me, like a good
little girl, and I'll see if I can't help you," said Archie, resolutely
retaining the hands with which she struggled to cover her face.
"Miss Hagar wants to send me to school, and I've no one to go with.
Minnette doesn't like to be troubled with----"
"Oh, I see it all! Minnette's been showing her angelic temper, and won't
let you go with her, eh?"
"Ye-e-es," sobbed Celeste, trying bravely not to cry.
"Well, never mind, birdie! I have to pass the Sisters' school every day
on my way to the academy, and I'll take care of you, if you'll go with
me. Will you?" he said, looking doubtfully into her little, shrinking
face.
"I--I think so," said Celeste, rather hesitatingly. "I will be a
trouble, though, I'm afraid."
"Not you!" exclaimed Archie, gayly. "I'll be your true knight and
champion now, and by and by you'll be my little wife. Won't you?"
"No-o-o, I don't like to," said Celeste, timidly.
Archie seemed to think this answer so remarkably funny that he gave way
to a perfect shout of laughter. Then, perceiving the sensitive little
creature on the verge of crying again, he stopped short by an effort,
and said, apologetically:
"There! don't cry, sis: I wasn't laughing at you. I say, Miss Hagar," he
added, springing abruptly to his feet as that ancient lady entered,
"mayn't I bring Celeste to school? I'll 'tend to her as carefully as if
she was my daughter. See if I don't."
A grim sort of smile relaxed the rigid muscles of Miss Hagar's iron face
as she glanced benignly at his merry, thoughtless face over the top of
her spectacles.
"Yes, she may go with you, and the Lord will bless you for your good,
kind heart," she said, laying her hand fondly on his curly head.
Archie, throwing up his cap in the exuberance of his glee, said:
"Run and get ready, sis, and come along."
"No; wait until to-morrow," said Miss Hagar. "She cannot go to-day."
"All right; to-morrow, then, you've to make your _debut_ in the school
of St. Mark's. I say, Miss Hagar, what shall we call her? not your
name--Dedley's too dismal."
"No; call her Pearl--she _is_ a pearl," said Miss Hagar, while her voice
became as gentle as _such_ a voice could.
"Very well, Celeste. Pearl then be it. And so, Celeste, be ready bright
and early to-morrow morning, and we'll go by Sunset Hall, and call for
Gipsy and Louis. By the way, you haven't seen Louis yet, have you?"
"No," said Celeste.
"Oh, then, you must see him, decidedly, to-morrow. But mind, you mustn't
go and like him better than you do me, because he's better-looking. I
tell you what, little sis, he's a capital fellow, and _so_ clever; he's
ahead of every fellow in the academy, and beats _me_ all to smash,
because I'm not clever at anything except riding and shooting, and I'm
his equal in those branches. So now I'm off--good-bye!"
And with a spring and a jump, Archie was out of the room and dashing
along the road at a tremendous rate.
The next morning Celeste, with a beating heart, set out with Archie for
school. How pretty she looked in her white muslin dress, her white
sunbonnet covering her golden curls--a perfect little pearl!
Archie, having paid her a shower of compliments, took her by the hand
and set out with her for Sunset Hall. At the gate Celeste halted, and no
persuasions could induce her to enter.
"No, no; I'll wait here until you come back. Please let me," she said,
pleadingly.
"Oh, well, then, I won't be long," said Archie, rushing frantically up
the lawn and bursting like a whirlwind into the hall door.
In a few moments he reappeared, accompanied by Louis.
"Look, old fellow! there she is at the gate. Isn't she a beauty?" said
Archie.
Louis stopped and gazed, transfixed by the radiant vision before him. In
her floating, snowy robes, golden hair, her sweet, angel-like face, on
which the morning sunshine rested like a glory, she was indeed lovely,
bewildering, dazzling.
"How beautiful! how radiant! how splendid! Archie, she is as pretty as
an angel!" burst forth Louis, impetuously.
"Ha, ha ha! a decided case of love at first sight. Come along and I'll
introduce you," exclaimed Archie.
Having presented the admiring Louis to Celeste, who, after the first shy
glance, never raised her eyes, he informed her that Gipsy had gone out
riding early in the morning, and they were forced to go without her.
"Celeste, you must sit to me for your portrait," said Louis,
impulsively, as they walked along.
"I don't know," said Celeste, shrinking closer to Archie, whom she had
learned to trust in like an old friend.
"I'm sketching the 'Madonna in the Temple' for Sister Mary, and your
sweet, holy, calm face will do exactly for a model," said Louis.
"That's a compliment, sis," said Archie, pinching her cheek; "you'd
better sit. Hallo! if that isn't Gipsy's bugle! And here she comes, as
usual, flying like the wind. If she doesn't break her neck some day, it
will be a wonder."
As he spoke, the clear, sweet notes of a bugle resounded musically among
the hills above them; and the next moment the spirited little Arabian,
Mignonne, came dashing at a break-neck pace down the rocks, with Gipsy
on his back, a fowling-piece slung over her shoulder, and sitting her
horse as easily as though she were in an easy-chair. With a wild
"tally-ho!" she cleared a yawning chasm at a bound, and reined her horse
in so suddenly that he nearly fell back on his haunches. The next
instant she was beside them, laughing at Celeste, who clung, pale with
fear, to Archie.
"What luck this morning, Diana?" exclaimed Archie.
"Pretty well for two hours. Look!" said Gipsy, displaying a well-filled
game-bag.
"Did you kill those birds?" inquired Celeste, lifting her eyes in fear,
not unmixed with horror, to the sparkling face of the young huntress.
"To be sure! There! don't look so horror-struck. I declare if the little
coward doesn't look as if she thought me a demon," said Gipsy, laughing
at Celeste's sorrowful face. "Look! do you see that bird away up there,
like a speck in the sky? Well, now watch me bring it down;" and Gipsy,
fixing her eagle eye on the distant speck, took deliberate aim.
"Oh, don't--don't!" cried Celeste, in an agony of terror; but ere the
words were well uttered, they were lost in the sharp crack of her little
rifle.
Wounded and bleeding, the bird began rapidly to fall, and, with a wild
shriek, Celeste threw up her arms, and fell to the ground.
"Good gracious! if I haven't scared the life out of Celeste!" exclaimed
Gipsy, in dismay, as Archie raised her, pale and trembling, in his arms.
"What a timid little creature!" thought Louis, as he watched her,
clinging convulsively to Archie.
"Oh, the bird! the poor bird!" said Celeste, bursting into tears.
Gipsy laughed outright, and pointing to a tree near at hand, said:
"There, Louis, the bird has lodged in that tree; go and get it for her."
Louis darted off to search the tree, and Gipsy, stooping down, said,
rather impatiently:
"Now, Celeste, don't be such a little goose! What harm is it to shoot a
bird?--everybody does it."
"I don't think it's right; it's so cruel. Please don't do it any more,"
said Celeste, pleadingly.
"Can't promise, dear? _I_ must do something to keep me out of mischief.
But here comes Louis. Well, is it dead?"
"No," said Louis, "but badly wounded. However, I'll take care of it; and
if it recovers, Celeste, you shall have it for a pet."
"Oh, thank you! you're _so_ good," said Celeste, giving him such a
radiant look of gratitude that it quite overcame the gravity of Master
Rivers, who fell back, roaring with laughter.
Celeste and Gipsy stood a little apart, conversing, and the boys sat
watching them.
"I say, Louis, what do you think of her?" said Archie, pointing to
Celeste.
"I think she is perfectly bewitching--the loveliest creature I ever
beheld," replied Louis, regarding her with the eye of an artist. "She
reminds me of a lily--a dove, so fair, and white, and gentle."
"And Gipsy, what does _she_ remind you of?"
"Oh! of a young Amazon, or a queen eaglet of the mountains, so wild and
untamed."
"And Minnette, what is she like?"
"Like a tigress, more than anything else I can think of just now," said
Louis, laughing; "beautiful, but rather dangerous when aroused."
"Aroused! I don't think she could be aroused, she is made of marble."
"Not she. As Miss Hagar says, the day will come when she will, she must
feel; every one does sometime in his life. What does Scott say:
"'Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent;
Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent.'"
"Well, if you take to poetry, you'll keep us here all day," said Archie,
rising. "Good-bye, Gipsy; come along Celeste!"
* * * * *
True to promise, Louis adopted the wounded bird; and under his skillful
hands it soon recovered and was presented to Celeste. She would have set
it free, but Louis said: "No; keep it for my sake, Celeste." And so
Celeste kept it; and no words can tell how she grew to love that bird.
It hung in a cage in her chamber, and her greatest pleasure was in
attending it. Minnette hated the very sight of it. That it belonged to
Celeste would have been enough to make her hate it; but added to that,
it had been given her by Louis Oranmore, the only living being Minnette
had ever tried to please; and jealousy added tenfold to her hatred.
Seeing the bird hanging, one day, out in the sunshine, she opened the
cage-door, and, with the most fiendish and deliberate malice, twisted
its neck, and then, going to Celeste, pointed to it with malignant
triumph sparkling in her bold, black eyes.
Poor Celeste! She took the dead and mangled body of her pretty favorite
in her lap, and sitting down, wept the bitterest tears she had ever shed
in her life. Let no one smile at her childish grief; who has been
without them? I remember distinctly the saddest tears that ever I shed
were over the remains of a beloved kitten, stoned to death. And through
all the troubles of after years, that first deep grief never was
forgotten.
While she was still sobbing as if her heart would break, a pair of
strong arms were thrown around her, and the eager, handsome face of
Louis was bending over her.
"Why, Celeste, what in the world are all those tears for?" he inquired,
pushing the disheveled golden hair off her wet cheek.
"Oh, Louis, my bird! my poor bird!" she cried, hiding her face on his
shoulder, in a fresh burst of grief.
"What! it's dead, is it?" said Louis, taking it up. "Did the cat get at
it?"
"No, no; it wasn't the cat; it was--it was----"
"_Who?_" said Louis, while his dark eyes flashed. "Did any one dare to
kill it? Did Minnette, that young tigress----"
"Oh, Louis! don't, don't! You mustn't call her such dreadful names!"
said Celeste, placing her hand over his mouth. "I don't think she meant
it; don't be angry with her, please; it's so dreadful!"
"You little angel!" he said, smoothing gently her fair hair; "no, for
your sake I'll not. Never mind, don't cry; I'll get you another, twice
as pretty as that!"
"No, Louis; I don't want any more! I'd rather have the dear birds free!
And now, will you--will you bury poor birdie?" said Celeste, almost
choking in her effort to be "good and not cry."
"Yes; here's a nice spot, under the rose-bush," said Louis; "and I'll
get a tombstone and write a nice epitaph. And you must console yourself
with the belief that it's happy in the bird's heaven, if there is such a
place," added Louis, as he placed poor "Birdie" in its last
resting-place.
Half an hour after, Celeste sought the presence of Minnette. She found
her sitting by the window, her chin resting on her hand, as was her
habit, gazing out. She did not turn round as Celeste entered; but the
latter went up softly, and, placing her hand on hers, said gently:
"Minnette, I'm afraid you're angry with me? I'm very sorry; please
forgive me?"
Minnette shook her roughly off, exclaiming:
"Don't bother me, you little whining thing! Go out of this!"
"Yes; but only say you forgive me, first! Indeed, indeed, Minnette, I
didn't mean to offend you. I want to love you, if you'll let me!"
"Love!" exclaimed Minnette, springing fiercely to her feet, her black
eyes gleaming like fire. "You artful little hypocrite! You consummate
little cheat? Don't talk to me of love! Didn't I see you in the garden,
with your arms around Louis Oranmore, in a way for which you ought to be
ashamed of yourself--complaining to him of my wickedness and cruelty in
killing the bird he gave you. And yet, after turning him against me,
you come here, and tell me you love me! Begone, you miserable little
beggar! I hate the very sight of you!"
Her face was convulsed with passion. With a cry of terror, Celeste fled
from the room to weep alone in her own chamber, while Minnette sat by
the window, watching the stars come out in their splendor, one by one,
with the germs of that jealousy taking deep root in her soul, that would
grow and bear fruit for evermore!
CHAPTER XIII.
GIPSY ASTONISHES THE NATIVES.
"What mighty mischief glads her now?"--FIRE WORSHIPERS.
Among the villagers of St. Mark's, the mad-headed, wild-eyed, fearless
Gipsy Gower was a universal favorite. Not one among them but had
received from her warm heart and generous hand some service. The squire
furnished his "imp" plentifully with pocket-money, which was invariably
bestowed with careless generosity upon the poor of the parish; but given
in a way that precluded all thanks. Sometimes the door would be thrust
open with such violence as to wake the inmates, thinking a troop of
horse was about to favor them with a visit, and her purse flung into the
middle of the floor; and away she would ride like a flash. But on these
occasions they were never at a loss to know the donor. If, on her next
visit, they began to thank her for her gift, Gipsy indignantly denied
all knowledge of it, and positively refused to listen to them.
Dr. Wiseman, who was a pretty extensive land-owner, had several tenants
in the remotest part of the village, whom he forced to pay an exorbitant
rent, giving them to understand that unless they paid it on the very day
it came due, out they must go! One evening, about dusk, Gipsy, who had
been riding out, was overtaken by a storm of wind and rain, and sought
shelter in one of the cottages.
On entering she found the whole family in deep distress. The head of the
family sat gazing moodily at the fire: his wife, surrounded by her
children, was weeping; and they, following her example, had set up a
clamorous cry.
"Why, what's up now? What's the matter, Mrs. Brown?" inquired Gipsy, in
surprise.
"Oh, Miss Gipsy! is it you? Sit down. Alas, it's the last time we can
ever ask you!" said the woman, with a fresh burst of tears.
"Why, are you going to turn me out the next time I come?" said Gipsy,
taking the proffered seat.
"Heaven forbid we'd ever turn you out, Miss Gipsy, after all you've done
for us!" said the woman; "but after to-night we'll no longer have a roof
to shelter us."
"You won't, eh? Do you intend to set fire to this old shanty, and burn
it down?" inquired Gipsy.
"No, no; but Dr. Wiseman was here for his rent (this is pay-day, you
know), and we haven't a cent in the house to give him. Mr. Brown's been
sick mostly all summer, and all we could make it took to feed the
children. And now Dr. Wiseman says he'll turn us out, to starve or beg,
to-morrow," replied the woman through her tears.
"The old sinner!" exclaimed Gipsy, through her hard-closed teeth. "Did
you ask him to give you time to pay?"
"Yes, I went on my knees, and begged him to spare us for a few months,
and we would pay him every cent; but he wouldn't. He said he would give
us until to-morrow morning, and if we didn't have it then, out we must
go."
For a moment Gipsy was silent, compressing her lips to keep down her
fiery wrath, while the woman wept more passionately than ever.
"Have his other tenants paid him?" inquired Gipsy, at length.
"Yes, all but us."
"When did he start for home?"
"Not five minutes ago?"
"Which way did he take?" said Gipsy, springing to her feet, and
beginning to examine her pistols.
"He went over the hills," said the man at the fire, speaking now for the
first time; "I heard them say he was afraid to be robbed if he went
round by the road, as he had all the money he got from the tenants with
him."
"All right, then, Mrs. Brown, my dear woman. Keep up heart; and if some
good fairy gets you out of this scrape, don't say a word about it. Good
night."
"You had better not venture alone in the storm," said Mrs. Brown,
anxiously; "one of the boys will go with you."
"Thank you, there's no necessity. I feel safer on Mignonne's back than
with all the boys that ever afflicted the world for its sins for a
body-guard. So mind my words, 'hold on to the last,' as the shoemaker
said, and don't despair."
The last words were lost in the storm of wind and rain, as she opened
the door. Springing on the back of Mignonne, she turned his head in the
direction of the hills, and sped over the ground as rapidly as her
fleet-footed Arabian could carry her.
Through the night, and wind, and rain, over the dangerous hilly path
jogged Dr. Wiseman. He scarcely felt the storm, for a talisman in the
shape of a well-filled pocket-book lay pressed to his avaricious heart.
His mare, a raw-boned old brute, as ugly as her master, walked along
slowly, manifesting a sublime contempt for storm and wind that would
have done the heart of a philosopher good. What her thoughts were about
it, would be hard to say; but her master's ran on money, robbers,
highwaymen, and other such "knights of the road."
"There are many desperate characters in the village who know I have a
large sum of money about me, and who would no more mind waylaying,
robbing, and perhaps murdering me, than I would of turning the Brown's
out to-morrow. Luckily, however, they'll think I've taken the village
road," said the doctor to himself, in a sort of soliloquy, "and so I'll
escape them. But this road is a dismal one, and seems just the place for
a rendezvous of robbers. Now, if a highwayman were to step up from
behind one of these rocks, and cry----"
"Your money or your life!" cried a deep, sepulchral voice at his ear,
with such startling suddenness that, with an exclamation of horror and
fear, the doctor nearly fell from his seat.
Recovering himself, he strove to see the robber, but in the deep
darkness and beating rain it was impossible. But though he couldn't see,
he could hear, and the sharp click of a pistol distinctly met his ear.
"Your money or your life!" repeated the low, hoarse voice, in an
imperious tone.
For reply, the doctor, rendered desperate by the fear of losing his
money, drew a pistol and fired. As it flashed, he saw for a moment a
horse standing before him, but the rider seemed to have lain flat down,
for no man was there. Ere he could draw his second pistol, his horse was
grasped by the bridle-rein, and the cold muzzle of a pistol was pressed
to his temple.
"Your money or your life!" cried a fierce, excited voice that terror
alone prevented him from recognizing. "Deliver up your money, old man,
or this instant you shall die."
"Oh, spare my life!" cried the wretched doctor, in an agony of terror,
for the cold ring of steel still pressed his temple like the deadly fang
of a serpent. "Spare my life, for God's sake, and you shall have all!
I'm a poor man, but you shall have it."
"Quick, then," was the imperious rejoinder, as the doctor fumbled in his
pockets, and at last, with a deep groan of despair, surrendered the
plump pocket-book to the daring outlaw.
"That is all I have; now let me go," cried the miserable doctor.
"Yes; but first you must solemnly swear never to speak to man, woman, or
child of what has occurred to-night. Swear by your own miserable soul!"
"I swear!" groaned the unhappy doctor.
"And lest you should be tempted to commit perjury, and break your oath,
let me tell you that the very first attempt to do so will be followed by
instant _death_. Mind! I will watch you day and night, dog your steps
like a blood-hound, and if you dare to breathe it to living mortal, that
moment will be your last."
"I'll never mention it! I'll never speak of it. Oh, let me go," implored
the agonized Galen.
"Very well, then. I have the honor to wish you good-night. If you don't
ride straight home, I'll send a bullet through your head."
And with this cheering assurance the robber put spurs to the horse, and
rode off in the direction opposite to that leading to Deep Dale.
Little need was there to exhort the terror-stricken doctor to ride
straight home. Never before had the spavined old mare fled over the
ground with the velocity she did that night, and Doctor Wiseman did not
breathe freely until he was double-locked in his own room.
The Browns paid their rent the next day, and would no longer remain
tenants of the doctor. If he suspected any one, the robber's threat
caused him prudently to remain silent; but his wretched look was an
unfailing subject of mirth for Gipsy Gower for a month after, and the
cunning twinkle of her eye said as plainly as words:
"I know, but I won't tell."
One day, Gipsy fell into deeper disgrace with the squire than had ever
occurred before. In fact, it was quite an outrageous thing, and the only
apology I can offer for her is, that she meant no harm.
The Bishop of B., Senator Long, and a number of distinguished gentlemen
and ladies from the city had come to St. Mark's to spend a few days.
Squire Erliston, as a matter of course, immediately called to see his
friends, and a few days after gave a large dinner-party, to which they
were all invited.
The important day for the dinner-party arrived. Lizzie was up in her
room, dressing. Mrs. Gower was superintending affairs in the
dining-room. The squire, in full dress, sat alone, awaiting his friends.
As he sat, sleep overpowered him, and unconsciously he sank into a
profound slumber.
While he was snoring in peace, little dreaming of the fate awaiting
him, that little imp of mischief, Gipsy, entered. One glance sufficed,
and across her fertile brain there shot a demoniacal project of
mischief, while her whole form became instinct, and her wicked eyes
scintillated with fun.
Quitting the room, she returned presently with a box of lampblack in one
hand, and the mustard-pot in the other.
"Now, Guardy, you keep still a little while till I turn you into an
Indian chief, and here goes for your war-paint."
So saying, the little wretch drew a streak of mustard across his nose,
following it by a similar one of lampblack. And so she continued until
his whole face was covered with alternate stripes of yellow and black,
scarcely able to repress a shout of laughter as she worked, at the
unspeakably ludicrous appearance he presented.
Having exhausted her supply of paint, Gipsy stepped to the door to
survey her work, and unable longer to restrain a roar of laughter, fled
to her room, quivering with the anticipation of the fun to come.
Scarcely had she quitted the room when the door was flung open, and, in
pompous tones, the servant announced:
"De Right Reveren' Bishop of B., de Hon'ble Senator Long and Mrs. Long."
And the whole party, half a dozen in number, entered the apartment.
The noise awoke the squire; and a most musical snore was mercilessly
interrupted, and ended in a hysterical snort. Starting to his feet with
an expression of countenance that utterly repudiated the idea of his
having been asleep, he advanced with extended hand toward the bishop.
That high functionary drew back for a moment aghast, and glanced at his
companions in horror. Human nature could stand it no longer, and a
universal shout of laughter resounded through the room.
"Eh? What? Lord bless me, what's the matter?" said the squire, turning
his face from one to another, inwardly wondering if they had all gone
mad. "What are you laughing at?"
A fresh roar of laughter from the whole party answered this, as they all
pressed their hands to their sides, utterly unable to stop. Seeing this,
the squire at last began grinning with sympathy, thereby adding so much
to the ludicrousness of his appearance, that some threw themselves on
the floor, some on chairs and sofas, in perfect convulsions.
"What the deuce is it?" repeated the squire, at last losing patience.
"Will you oblige me by telling me what the matter is?"
"My dear sir," began the bishop, in tremulous tones.
The squire turned his painted face eagerly toward the speaker. In vain
he attempted to proceed, it was not in human nature to withstand that
face, and the bishop fell back in a paroxysm that threatened never to
end.
It was a scene for an artist. The row of convulsed faces around, pausing
for a moment breathlessly, but breaking forth louder than ever the
minute their eyes again fell upon him. And there sat the squire with his
black and yellow face, turning in dismay from one to another, his round
bullet-eyes ready to pop from their sockets.
At this moment the door opened, and Lizzie, Louis, and Mrs. Gower,
followed by all the servants in the house, attracted by the noise, burst
into the room. The moment their eyes fell on the squire, who had started
to his feet to address them, their looks of surprise vanished and, as if
by one accord, shout after shout of laughter broke from all. In vain did
the squire stamp, and fume, and demand to know what was the matter; his
only answer was a fresh explosion of mirth.
At last, in despair, Mrs. Gower managed to point to a mirror opposite.
The squire rushed frantically to the spot, and then paused, transfixed,
aghast with horror. Turning slowly round, he confronted his guests with
such a look of blank, utter dismay, that all the laughter previous was
nothing to the universal roar which followed that despairing glance.
Then bursting out with: "It's that fiend!--that demon incarnate!--that
little Jezebel has done this," he rushed from the room in search of her.
Gipsy, attracted by the laughter, had ventured cautiously to descend the
stairs. The squire perceived her, as like a flash she turned to fly.
With one galvanic bound he sprang up the stairs, seized her by the
shoulder, shouting:
"By Heaven! I'll pay you for this when they go!"
Then opening an adjoining door, he thrust her in, turned the key, put it
in his pocket, and rushed out of the house into the yard, where, by the
friendly aid of soap and hot water, and some hard scrubbing, he managed
to make himself once more look like a Christian.
Then, returning to his guests--who by this time had laughed themselves
into such a state that they could laugh no longer--he dispersed the
servants with sundry kicks and cuffs, and proceeded to explain, as well
as he was able, how it came about. Politeness forced the party to make
every effort to maintain their gravity, but more than once, while seated
in solemn conclave round the dinner-table, the recollection of the old
man's ludicrous appearance would prove too much for flesh and
blood--and, leaning back, they would laugh until the tears stood in
their eyes. Their example proving contagious, the whole party would join
in, to the great mortification of the squire--who inwardly vowed that
Gipsy should pay dearly for every additional laugh.
But for the squire to reckon without Gipsy was rather a hazardous
experiment. Seldom did that young lady find herself in a position from
which her genius would not extricate her--as the squire found to his
cost in the present instance.
Gipsy's first sensation at finding herself for the first time really a
prisoner was one of intense mortification, followed by indignation; and
her though
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