"Then on his cheek the flush of rageO'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.
"Then on his cheek the flush of rageO'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.
"Then on his cheek the flush of rageO'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.
ipsy 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, areallady, 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 asyoudo. No! stands to reason, dey wouldn't, an' dat's de trufe now, ef Iisa good-for-nothin'. Dar!"
"You aggravating old Jupiter, you, I'lldaryou 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."
"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."
"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,verywrong, 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 fancyme, 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 Idon'tknow that I've did wrong. On the contrary, I know I've didright; 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 toldyoubefore, 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 assuredlyhave 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 himwhether 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.
"Oh, wanton malice—deathful sport—Could ye not spare my all?But mark my words, on thy cold heartA fiery doom shall fall."
"Oh, wanton malice—deathful sport—Could ye not spare my all?But mark my words, on thy cold heartA fiery doom shall fall."
"Oh, wanton malice—deathful sport—Could ye not spare my all?But mark my words, on thy cold heartA 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.
n 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 Idohate 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 startledher. 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 Celesteto 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 yourdebutin 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—sheisa pearl," said Miss Hagar, while her voice became as gentle assucha 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, andsoclever; he's ahead of every fellow in the academy, and beatsmeall 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 toArchie, 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?Imust 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'resogood," 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 doessheremind 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.'"
"'Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent;Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent.'"
"'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 addedto 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!
"What mighty mischief glads her now?"
"What mighty mischief glads her now?"
"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.
mong 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 herhard-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 fearof 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 instantdeath. 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 yougood-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 thefate 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 backfor 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 thoughts ran somewhat after the following fashion:
"The mean old thing!—to lock me up here just because I applied a little mustard outside instead of inside! Never mind; if I don't fix him for it, it'll be a wonder. So you'll pay me for this, will you, Guardy? Ah! but you ain't sure of me yet, you see. If I don't outwit you yet, my name's not Gipsy Roarer Gower! Now, Gipsy, my dear, set your wits to work, and get yourself out of this black hole of a prison."
Going to the window, she looked out. The sight would have appalled any one else; but it did not intimidate Gipsy. The room she was in was on the third story, at a dizzy height from the ground. She looked around for a rope to descend; but none did the room contain. What was she to do? Gipsy raised herself on one toe to consider.
Suddenly her eye fell on a new suit of broadcloth her guardian had brought home only the day before. She did not hesitate an instant.
To her great delight she found a pair of scissors in her pocket; and, taking the coat and unmentionables from the wall where they hung, she sat down and diligently fell to work cutting them into long strips. Fifteen minutes passed, and nothing remained of Guardy'snew clothes but a long black knotted string—which, to her great delight, she found would reach easily to the ground.
Fastening it to the window-sill securely, she began to descend, and in ten minutes she stood once more onterra firma.
Going to the stables, she saddled Mignonne and led him to the front gate, where she left him standing. Then, with unheard-of audacity, she entered the hall, opened the dining-room door, and thrusting in her wicked little head, she exclaimed exultingly:
"I say, Guardy, you can 'pay' me any time at your leisure, and I'll give you a receipt in full."
Then, I am sorry to say, making a hideous grimace, she turned to fly; but the squire jumped from his seat—overturning the bishop and Mrs. Senator Long in his violent haste—and shouting, "Stop her! stop her!" rushed after her from the room.
But he was too late, and she leaped upon Mignonne's back and was off. Waving her hat in the air in a defiant "hurra!" she dashed down the road and disappeared.
Amazement and rage were struggling in the breast of the squire. Doubting whether it was all a delusion, he rushed up stairs to the room. The door was still fast; and, burning with impatience, he opened it. And there he found the window wide open, and his new suit converted into a rope, which still dangled, as if in exultation from the window. And the mystery was solved.
What the squire said and did there, it is useless to say. The reader knows his remarks were anything but edifying; and even the august presence of the overturned bishop could not prevent him from hurling a torrent of invectives against the unfortunate Gipsy. Never had Squire Erliston been so angry in his life.Inwardly vowing that she should repent what she had done, the squire "bided his time"—little dreaming how bitterly he was destined to repent that vow.