"Fond girl! no saint nor angel heWho 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 runsFull of the day-god's living fire."
"Fond girl! no saint nor angel heWho 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 runsFull of the day-god's living fire."
"Fond girl! no saint nor angel heWho 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 runsFull 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.
he 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 thanthat 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 whatIcalls 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. CanI 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 passedaway, 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—Iknew 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'tmy Liz be astonished, though?"
"I hope your daughter is quite well, squire."
"Well!—you'd better believe it. My daughter isneversick. No, sir; got too much sense—specially Liz. Esther alwayswasa 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 beautynow;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."
"There's somebody coming to marry me—There's somebody coming to woo."
"There's somebody coming to marry me—There's somebody coming to woo."
Whether Miss Lizzie had seen thatsomebodycoming 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 withworthy 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 hershort. 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 toyouyou 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 behischild, 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. Washe? 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.
"Bride, upon thy marriage-day,Did the fluttering of thy breathSpeak of joy or woe beneath?And the hue that went and cameOn thy cheek like waving flame,Flowed that crimson from the unrest,Or the gladness of thy breast?"—Hemans.
"Bride, upon thy marriage-day,Did the fluttering of thy breathSpeak of joy or woe beneath?And the hue that went and cameOn thy cheek like waving flame,Flowed that crimson from the unrest,Or the gladness of thy breast?"—Hemans.
"Bride, upon thy marriage-day,Did the fluttering of thy breathSpeak of joy or woe beneath?And the hue that went and cameOn 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.
quire 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 theother 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 ofhappinessto 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 oldservants 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 ofonevoice 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 asthat.
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 werenotfrom 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 toanotherbridal, in a land beyond the sea, with one for whose blue eyes and golden hair he wouldthenwillingly have surrendered fame, andwealth, 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. Tohimit seemed like the service for the dead—toherit 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."
"With decorum all things carried;Miss smiled, and blushed, and then was—married."
"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 twineShall wear this cypress wreath of mine."
"Oh, bride! woe to thee!Ere the spring leaves deck the tree,Those locks you now with jewels twineShall wear this cypress wreath of mine."
"Oh, bride! woe to thee!Ere the spring leaves deck the tree,Those locks you now with jewels twineShall 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 tothe 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 andsoirees, 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 brilliantsoiree, 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 onher 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.
"A little, wild-eyed, tawny child,A fairy sprite, untamed and wild,Like to no one save herself,A laughing, mocking, gipsy elf."
"A little, wild-eyed, tawny child,A fairy sprite, untamed and wild,Like to no one save herself,A laughing, mocking, gipsy elf."
"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.
ear 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'sprotegeewas 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 thehousehold; 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: