"Oh, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd;She was a vixen when she went to school,And though she is but little, she is fierce."
"Oh, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd;She was a vixen when she went to school,And though she is but little, she is fierce."
"Oh, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd;She was a vixen when she went to school,And though she is but little, she is fierce."
The moonlight was falling brightly on the lawn, and shimmering like silver sheen on the leaves of the horse-chestnuts, as Gipsy rode home. The company had just dispersed, and the squire was about to retire, when the clatter of horse's hoofs on the graveled path made him start up and hasten out to the porch. And there he beheld the audacious Gipsy riding fearlessly toward him, shouting at the top of her lungs some wild chorus, of which he only caught the words:
he moonlight was falling brightly on the lawn, and shimmering like silver sheen on the leaves of the horse-chestnuts, as Gipsy rode home. The company had just dispersed, and the squire was about to retire, when the clatter of horse's hoofs on the graveled path made him start up and hasten out to the porch. And there he beheld the audacious Gipsy riding fearlessly toward him, shouting at the top of her lungs some wild chorus, of which he only caught the words:
"You must place in my coffin a bottle of red,And say a good fellow is gone."
"You must place in my coffin a bottle of red,And say a good fellow is gone."
"You must place in my coffin a bottle of red,And say a good fellow is gone."
"If I don't pay her off before I sleep to-night!" muttered the squire, between his clenched teeth. "I'll put an end to her pranks, or know for why."
Gipsy leaped lightly from her horse, and resigning him to Jupiter, ran up the steps, and encountered the purple face and blazing eyes of her angry guardian.
"Good-evening, Guardy!" was her salute. "Nice night!"
"Stop!" said the squire, catching her by the arm as she was about to run past—"stop! I've an account to settle with you, my lady!"
"Oh, any time at your convenience, Squire Erliston; I'll not be hard on you."
"Silence, Miss Impertinence! You have the impudence of Satan to face me after what you have done!"
"Now, Guardy, don't be unreasonable, but look at the matter in its proper light. All fashionable people paint."
"Silence!" exclaimed the squire, in a voice hoarse with rage. "Silence! before I brain you, you little villain! You have made me the laughing-stock of the country for miles around. I can never dare to show my face after what has occurred, without being jeered and mocked at. And all through you—the creature of my bounty—the miserable little wretch who would have been a common street-beggar if I had not clothed, and fed, and educated you!—through you, you brazen-faced, good-for-nothing little pauper, whom I would have kicked out long ago to the workhouse where you belong, if I had not feared the opinion of the world. Begone from my sight, before I am tempted to brain you!"
His face was perfectly livid with the storm of passion into which he had wrought himself. As he ceased, he raised his hand and brutally struck her a blow that sent her reeling across the room.
Then all the demon in her fiery nature was aroused. With the shriek of a wounded panther, she leaped toward him, with clenched hands, blazing eyes, hard-ground teeth, ghastly face, convulsed brow, and eyes that fairly scintillated sparks of fire. She looked a perfect little fiend, as she glared upon him, quivering in every nerve with frenzied passion.
The old sinner drew back appalled, frightened into calmness by that dark, fierce face. For a moment he expected she would spring at his throat like a tigress and strangle him. But, with a long, wild cry, she clasped her hands above her head, and fled swiftly up-stairs, disappearing like some elfin sprite in the darkness beyond.
"Good Lord!" muttered the squire, wiping the drops of terror off his face. "What a perfect little devil! Did ever any one see such a look on a human face before! It's my opinion she's allied to Old Nick, and will carry me off some night in a brimstone of cloud and fire—I mean a fire of cloud and brimstone. Good gracious! I'm palpitating like a hysterical girl. I never got such a fright in my life. I vow it's a danger to go to bed with that desperate little limb in the house. I shouldn't wonder if she set the place on fire about our ears and burned us all in our beds, or cut our throats, or something. She looked wild and crazy enough to do it. Well, I reckon, I'll be more careful how I chastise her for the future, that's certain."
So saying, the squire took his night-lamp and went off to bed, taking the precaution to double lock his door, lest the "little imp" should take it into her head to carry him off bodily during the night.
No such catastrophe occurred, however, and when the squire went down to breakfast, he found everything going on as usual. Lizzie lay on a lounge, immersed in the pages of a novel, and Louis sat by the window busily sketching, as was his custom.
"I say, Lizzie, have you seen anything of Gipsy this morning?" he inquired, as he entered.
"No, papa."
"I'd rather think she rode off before any of us wereup this morning," said Louis, raising his head. "Mignonne is not in the stable."
This was nothing unusual, so without waiting for her, the family sat down to breakfast.
But half an hour after, Totty came running in alarm to Mrs. Gower, to say Miss Gipsy's bed had not been slept in all night. This fact was self-evident; and the worthy housekeeper sought out the squire to learn whether Gipsy had returned home the night before.
"Yes, yes, to be sure she did. 'Night brings home all stragglers,' as Solomon says. Why?"
"Because she has not slept in her bed the livelong night."
"No!" shouted the squire, springing from his seat, as if some one had speared him. "Lord bless me! where can she have gone?"
"Ah, Squire Erliston, you do not think anything has happened to the dear child, do you?" said Mrs. Gower, clasping her hands.
"Fiddle-de-dee, woman, of course not. She's gone back to Deep Dale, I'll lay a wager. Oh, here comes young Rivers, now we'll know."
"Archie, my dear," said Mrs. Gower, as that young gentleman entered the room, "did Gipsy go back to Deep Dale last night?"
"Go back! Why, of course she didn't."
"Oh, Squire Erliston, you hear that. Oh, where can that crazy creature have gone?" exclaimed Mrs. Gower, twisting her fingers in distress.
"Why, what's wrong? Where is Gipsy?" asked Archie, in surprise.
"Oh, I don't know. She came home late last night, and must have gone away somewhere, for she never went to bed at all. Oh, I am sure she has been killed,or drowned, or shot, or something! I always knew it would happen," and Mrs. Gower fairly began to cry.
"Knew what would happen?" said Archie, perplexed and alarmed.
"Something or other. I always said it; and now my words have come true," replied Mrs. Gower sobbing.
"Mrs. Gower, ma'am, allow me to tell you, you're a fool!" broke out the squire. "Most likely she didn't feel sleepy, and rode off before you were out of your bed this morning, just like the young minx. Ring the bell, and we'll see what time she started."
Archie obeyed, and Totty made her appearance.
"Tott," said the master, "be off with you, and send Jupiter here immediately."
Totty ducked her wooly head by way of reply, as she ran off, and presently Jupiter made his appearance in evident trouble.
"Jupe, you black rascal, what time did Gipsy ride off this morning?" asked the squire.
"Please, mas'r, it warn't dis mornin' she rid off," said Jupiter, holding the door ajar, in order that he might retreat if his master grew violent.
"What do you mean, sir?" roared his master, in rising terror.
"'Deed, mas'r, I couldn't stop the young wixen—de young lady, I mean—she don't mind me, no how, she don't."
"Nor anybody else, for that matter," groaned the squire, inwardly.
"You see, mas'r, arter she come home, I tuk Minnon inter de stable, and 'gan rubbin' him down, 'caze he was all in a foam she done rid him so hard. Well, 'bout half an hour arter, as I was goin' to bed, I hears a noise in de yard, an' when I looks out, dar was Miss Gipsy takin' dehorse out again. 'Deed she was, mas'r, an' 'fore I could get out she war gone—'twan't no fault of mine."
"Oh, Gipsy! Gipsy!" shouted the squire, jumping to his legs and stamping up and down the floor in an agony of remorse and sorrow. "And I've driven you from home, old monster that I am! I'm a brute! an alligator! a crocodile! a wretched old wretch! a miserable, forsaken old sinner! and I'll knock down any man that dare say to the contrary! Oh, Gipsy, my dear little plague! where are you now? My darling little wild eaglet! friendless in the wide world!" Here catching sight of Jupiter still standing in the doorway, he rushed upon him and shook him until the unfortunate darkey's jaws chattered like a pair of castanets. "As for you, you black rascal! I have a good mind to break every bone in your worthless skin. Why didn't you wake me up, sir, when you saw her going, eh? Answer me that!"
"Mas'r—ma—ma—mas'r," stuttered poor Jupiter, half strangled, "'deed de Lord knows I was 'fraid to 'sturb ye. Ma—ma—ma—mas'r——"
"Silence, sir! Up with you and mount—let every man, woman, and child in the place be off in search of her. And Mrs. Gower, ma'am, do you stop snuffling there. 'No use crying for spilled milk,' as Solomon says. We'll have her home and soundly thrashed before night, or my name's not Magnus Theodoric Erliston. Ha! there! Louis! Archie! the rest of you, mount and off! And Mrs. Gower, ma'am, do you run out and saddle my horse, and bring him round while I draw on my boots."
"Squire Erliston," sobbed the poor old lady, "you know very well I can't saddle your horse. Oh, Gipsy! Gipsy!" she added, with a fresh burst of tears.
"Well, fly and tell some of the rest, then. Women are such worthless creatures—good for nothing but crying. There they go, with Louis and young Rivers at their head, to scour the country. 'In the days when we went gipsying,' as Solomon says. I do believe that little minx will be the death of me yet—I know she will! I'm losing flesh; I'm losing temper; I'm losing cash! I'm losing rest, and losing patience every day. She'll bring my gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, as Solomon says, only I happen to wear a wig, Ah! there's my horse. Now for it! Gipsy Gower, you little torment, you,won'tI tell you a piece of my mind when I catch you!"
But the squire was destined not to catch her; for, though they continued the search for the lost one until night, no trace of her could be found. All that could be learned of her was from an innkeeper in a neighboring town, some twenty miles distant. He said a young girl answering the description given of Gipsy had arrived there about daylight, and, after taking a hasty breakfast, had left her horse—which was utterly exhausted by the pace with which she had ridden him—and started in the mail coach for the city.
Mignonne was led home, and as it was too late to go farther that day the tired horsemen returned, silent and dispirited, homeward. The next day the search was renewed, and the driver of the mail-coach questioned concerning the little fugitive. He could throw but little light on the subject; she accompanied him as far as the city, where she paid her fare and left him. And that was all he knew.
Placards were posted up, and rewards offered; the police were put upon her track; but all in vain. And at last all hope was given up, and the lost child was resigned to her fate.
One day, about three weeks after her flight, the postman brought a letter for Mrs. Gower. One glance at the superscription, and with a cry of joy she tore it open,for it was in the light, careless hand of Gipsy. It ran as follows:
"My Dear, Darling Aunty:—I suppose you have had great times up at Sunset Hall since I made a moonlight flitting of it. I wish I had been there to see the fun. I suppose Guardy stamped and roared, and blew up Jupiter, and blessedme—after his old style. Well, you know, aunty, I just couldn't help it. Guardy was getting so unbearable there was no standing him, and so I'm going to take Gipsy Gower under my own especial patronage, and make a good girl of her. Don't be angry, now, aunty, because I'll take precious good care of myself—see if I don't. Tell Guardy not to make a fuss, for fear it might bring on the gout, and tell him not to keep searching for me, for if he hunts till he's black in the face he won't find me. Remember me to Aunt Liz, and Louis, and Celeste, and—andArchie. Tell Archie not to fall in love with anybody else; if he does he may look out for a squall from your own littleGipsy."
"My Dear, Darling Aunty:—I suppose you have had great times up at Sunset Hall since I made a moonlight flitting of it. I wish I had been there to see the fun. I suppose Guardy stamped and roared, and blew up Jupiter, and blessedme—after his old style. Well, you know, aunty, I just couldn't help it. Guardy was getting so unbearable there was no standing him, and so I'm going to take Gipsy Gower under my own especial patronage, and make a good girl of her. Don't be angry, now, aunty, because I'll take precious good care of myself—see if I don't. Tell Guardy not to make a fuss, for fear it might bring on the gout, and tell him not to keep searching for me, for if he hunts till he's black in the face he won't find me. Remember me to Aunt Liz, and Louis, and Celeste, and—andArchie. Tell Archie not to fall in love with anybody else; if he does he may look out for a squall from your own littleGipsy."
This characteristic letter, instead of comforting the family, plunged them into still deeper trouble on her account. Mrs. Gower wept for her darling unceasingly, and would not be comforted; Lizzie sighed and yawned, and lay on her lounge from morning till night, looking drearier than ever; and the servants went in silence and sadness about their daily business, heaving a sigh and shedding a tear over every memento that recalled poor Gipsy. Now that she was gone they found how dearly they loved her, in spite of all the scrapes and troubles she had ever cost them.
A dull, heavy, stagnant silence hung over the mansion from morning till night. There was no more banging of doors, and flying in and out, and up and downstairs, and scolding, and shouting, and singing all in one burst, now. The squire was blue-molding—fairly "running to seed," as he mournfully expressed it—for want of his little torment.
No one missed the merry little elf more than the lusty old squire, who sighed like a furnace, and sat undisturbed in his own arm-chair from one week's end to the other. Sometimes Louis would bring over Celeste, who had nearly wept her gentle eyes out for the loss of her friend, to comfort him, and the fair, loving little creature would nestle on a stool at his feet and lay her golden head in his lap, and go to sleep. And the squire would caress her fair, silken curls with his great, rough hands, and pat her white, dimpling shoulders, and turn away with a half groan; for she was not Gipsy!
As for poor Archie, he took to wandering in the woods and shooting unoffending birds and rabbits, because it was Gipsy's favorite sport, and looked as doleful as though he had lost every friend in the world.
"Fall in love with any one else," indeed! Master Archie scorned the idea, and began to have sundry visions of joining the monks of La Trappe as soon as he grew old enough. This and his other threats of going to sea, of enlisting, of killing somebody, by way of relieving his spirits, kept poor Celeste trembling with fear for him from morning till night. And in her own gentle way she would put her arms round his neck and cry on his shoulder, and beg of him not to say such naughty things, for that Gipsy would come back yet—sheknewthat she would.
But Minnette, who didn't care a straw whether Gipsy ever came back or not, would laugh her short, deriding laugh, and advise him to become a Sister of Charity at once. And Celeste saidshewould be one when she grewup, and then she would be always near to comfort him. And Minnette's taunts always sent poor Archie off to the woods in a more heart-broken state of mind than ever before.
——"Face and figure of a child,Though too calm, you think, and tender,For the childhood you would lend her."—Browning.
——"Face and figure of a child,Though too calm, you think, and tender,For the childhood you would lend her."—Browning.
——"Face and figure of a child,Though too calm, you think, and tender,For the childhood you would lend her."—Browning.
The winter was now drawing on. The short, bleak November days had come, with their chill winds and frosty mornings. Miss Hagar looked at the slight, delicate form and pale little face of herprotegee, and began to talk of keeping her at home, instead of sending her to school during the winter months.
he winter was now drawing on. The short, bleak November days had come, with their chill winds and frosty mornings. Miss Hagar looked at the slight, delicate form and pale little face of herprotegee, and began to talk of keeping her at home, instead of sending her to school during the winter months.
Celeste listened, and never dreamed of opposing her wishes, but stole away by herself, and shed the first selfish tears that had ever fallen from her eyes in her life. It was so pleasant in school, among so many happy young faces, and with the holy, gentle-voiced Sisters of Charity, and so unspeakably lonesome at home, with nothing to do but look out of the window at gray hills and leafless trees, and listen to the dreary sighing of the wind. Therefore Celeste grieved in silence, and strove to keep back the tears when in Miss Hagar's presence, lest she should think her an ungrateful, dissatisfied little girl.
One morning, however, as Miss Hagar entered thedeserted parlor, she found Celeste sitting in the chimney-corner, her face hidden in her hands, sobbing gently to herself. A little surprised at this, for the child seemed always smiling and happy before her, Miss Hagar took her on her knee, and asked what was the matter.
"Nothing," replied Celeste, though her cheek glowed crimson red, as she felt she was not speaking the truth.
"People don't cry for nothing, child!" said the aged spinster, severely. "What's the matter?"
"Please, Miss Hagar, I'm so naughty, but—but—I don't want to leave school."
"Don't want to leave school? Why, child, you'd freeze to death going to school in the winter."
"But Minnette goes," pleaded Celeste.
"Minnette's not like you, little lily. She's strong and hardy, and doesn't mind the cold; it only brings living roses to her cheeks; butyou, little whiff of down that you are, you'd blow away with the first winter breeze."
Celeste had no reply to make to this. She only hung down her head, and tried very hard to swallow a choking sensation in her throat.
At this moment Archie burst in, in his usual boisterous manner, all aglow with snow-balling Louis. Master Rivers seemed in very good condition, notwithstanding the loss of Gipsy; though I rather think he would have been induced to knock any one down who would tell him he had forgotten her.
"What! in trouble again, little sis? Who's been bothering you now? Just give me a hint, and I'll invite them not to do it again."
"Why, the little simpleton is crying because I won't let her freeze herself to death going to school all winter!" said Miss Hagar.
"Oh, that's it—is it? Dry up your tears, then, Birdie; there's 'balm in Gilead' for you. Yesterday,that good-natured old savage, Squire Erliston, hearing me tell Louis that Celeste could not go to school owing to the distance, immediately insisted that we should all use his family sleigh for the winter. Now, Miss Hagar, see how those radiant smiles chase her tears away. We'll nestle you up in the buffalo robes, and dash off to school with you every morning to the music of the jingling sleigh-bells. Eh, puss? won't it be glorious?"
"What's that?" said Minnette, entering suddenly.
"Why, Squire Erliston has given his sleigh up to Pussy here to take her to school, and perhaps we'll take you if you're not cross, though the squire has no particular love for you."
"Thank you for nothing," said Minnette, scornfully; "but I wouldn't go if you did ask me. Before I'd be such a baby!" she added, glancing contemptuously at Celeste.
And Minnette was as good as her word, positively refusing even the stormiest mornings to go in the sleigh. Archie exhausted all his eloquence, and Celeste pleaded tearfully, offering to stay at home and let her take her place; but Minnette answered all their entreaties by a sullen "I won't." Even when Louis, the only living being to whom her high, stubborn will would bend, pleaded with her to come, she only turned away, and said, in a toneverygentle for her:
"No, Louis, don't ask me; I can't go. Why should I? I'm no trembling little coward like Celeste. Ilovethe winter!—yes, twice as well as the summer! The summer is too still, and warm, and serene for me! But the winter, with its maddening winds and howling storms, and white, frosty ground and piercing cold breeze, sends the blood bounding like lightning through every vein in my body, until I fly along, scarcely touching the ground beneath me! Louis, walking alonethrough the drifted snow, I feel no cold; but in your warm sleigh besideher, my heart would feel like ice!"
"Strange, wild girl that you are! Why do you dislike Celeste so much?"
"I don't know. I never liked any one in my life—at least not more thanone. Doyoulike her?" she said, lifting her eyes, glancing with dusky fire, to his face.
"Like her!" he exclaimed, shaking back his short, black curls, while his full, dark eye kindled—"like that lovely little creature! that gentle little dove! that sweet little fairy! beautiful as an angel! radiant as a poet's dream! bewitching as an Eastern houri! Like her! Oh, Minnette!"
She paused for a moment, and fixed her gleaming eyes on the bright, handsome face, sparkling with boyish enthusiasm; then, without a word, turned away, and fled from his sight.
And from that moment her hatred of Celeste redoubled tenfold in its intensity. Every opportunity of wounding and insulting the sensitive heart of the gentle child was seized; but every insult was borne with patience—every taunt and sarcasm met with meek silence, that only exasperated her merciless tormentor more and more. Sometimes Celeste would feel rising in her bosom a feeling of dislike and indignation toward her persecutor; and then, filled with remorse, she would kneel in the chapel and meekly pray for a better spirit, and always rise strengthened and hopeful, to encounter her arch-enemy, with her taunting words and deriding black eyes.
One last incident, displaying forcibly their different dispositions, and I have done with thechildren, Minnette and Celeste, forever.
The Sisters had purchased a beautiful new statue of the Madonna, and placed it in the refectory until it couldbe properly fixed in the chapel. The children were repeatedly forbidden to enter the refectory while it was there, lest it should accidentally be broken.
One day, the Sisters had given aconge, and their pupils were out playing noisily in the large garden and grounds attached to the convent. Minnette, who never liked to mingle in a crowd, selected three of the boldest spirits present, and proposed they should play "Puss in the corner" by themselves.
"Oh! we can't here in this great big place," was the reply; "besides, the other girls will be sure to join us."
"Let us go into the class-room, then," said the adventurous Minnette.
"Sister Mary Stanislaus is sweeping out the class-room, and she won't let us," said one of the girls.
"Well, then, there's the refectory," persisted Minnette.
"Oh! we daren't go there! Mother Vincent would be dreadfully angry. You know the new statue is there!" said the girls, aghast at the very idea.
"Such cowards!" exclaimed Minnette, her lip curling and her eye flashing. "I wish Gipsy Gower were here.Shewould not be afraid."
"Iain't a coward! I'll go!" cried one, following the daring Minnette, who had already started for the forbidden room. The others, yielding to their bolder spirit, followed after, and soon were wildly romping in the refectory.
Suddenly, Minnette, in her haste, rushed against the shelf where the statue stood. Down it came, with a loud crash, shivered into a thousand fragments.
The four girls stood pale, aghast with terror. Even Minnette's heart for a moment ceased to beat, as she gazed on the broken pieces of the exquisite statue. Itwas but for a moment; all her presence of mind returned, as she breathlessly exclaimed:
"Sister will be here in a moment and catch us. Let us run out and join the other girls, and she'll never know who did it."
In an instant they were rushing pell-mell from the room. Minnette was the last, and as she went out her eye fell upon Celeste coming along the passage. A project for gratifying her hatred immediately flashed across her mind. Seizing Celeste by the arm she thrust her into the refectory, closed the door, and fled, just as the Sister, startled by the noise, came running to the spot.
She opened the door! There stood Celeste, pale and trembling, gazing in horror on the ruins at her feet.
An involuntary shriek from Sister Stanislaus brought all the nuns and pupils in alarm to the spot. Celeste had entered the forbidden room—had, by some accident, broken the beautiful and costly statue; that was a fact self-evident to all. She did not attempt to deny it—her trembling lips could frame no words, while therealculprits stood boldly by, silent and unsuspected.
Celeste was led away to appear before "Mother Vincent," and answer the heavy charge brought against her. She well knew how it all happened, and could very easily have cleared herself; but she had just been reading a lecture on humility and self-denial, and heroically resolved to bear the blame sooner than charge Minnette. "Minnette will hate me worse than ever if I tell," she thought; "and I must try and get her to like me. Besides, I deserve punishment, for I felt dreadfully bad and naughty, when she made the girls laugh at me this morning."
So Celeste met the charge only by silence, and sobs, and tears; and Mother Vincent, leading her into theclass-room, where all the girls and teachers were assembled, administered a public reproof.
"Had it been any of the other girls," she said, "she would not have felt surprised; but Celeste was such a good girl generally, she was indeed surprised and grieved. It was not for the loss of the statue she cared most—thoughthatcould scarcely be replaced—but so glaring an act of disobedience as entering the refectory could not go unpunished. Therefore, Sister Mary Joseph would lead Celeste off and leave her by herself until school was dismissed, as a warning to be more obedient in future."
And Celeste, with her fair face flushed with shame—her bosom heaving with sobs as though her gentle heart would break—was led away to the now unforbidden refectory, and left alone in her deep sorrow. The real culprits sat silent and uneasy, starting guiltily when a low, suppressed sob would now and then reach their ear. But Minnette, with her black eyes blazing with triumph, her cheeks crimson with excitement, sat bold and undaunted, proud and rejoicing in her victory.
That evening one of the girls, unable to endure the stings of conscience, went to the Mother Superior and nobly confessed the whole. The good lady listened amazed, but silent. Celeste was released, brought before her, and confronted with Minnette.
"Why did you tell this falsehood, Minnette?" said the justly indignant lady, turning to her.
"I told no falsehood, madam," she said, boldly, though her cheek glowed like fire, and her falcon eye fell beneath the keen, steady gaze of the other.
"Youacteda falsehood, then, which is quite as bad," said Mother Vincent; "and I am pained beyond measure to find so artful and wicked a disposition in one so young. And you, my child," she added, drawing Celestetoward her and caressing her golden head; "why did you suffer this wrong in silence?"
"Because I deserved it, Mother; I didn't like Minnette this morning," she answered, dropping her pale face sadly.
A glance that might have killed her, it was so dazzlingly, intensely angry, shot from the lightning eyes of Minnette.
After a few brief words, both were dismissed. The sleigh stopped to take up Celeste, and Minnette walked proudly and sullenly home.
When she reached the house she found Celeste standing in the doorway, with Louis beside her, twining her golden curls over his fingers. All the evil passions in Minnette's nature were aroused at the sight. Springing upon her, fairly screaming with rage, she raised her clenched hand and struck her a blow that felled her to the ground. Then darting past, she flew like a flash up the polished oaken staircase, and locked herself in her own room; but not until the wild cry of Louis at the demoniac act reached her ear, turning her very blood to gall.
He sprang forward, and raised Celeste up. She had struck on a sharp icicle as she fell, and the golden hair clung to her face clotted with the flowing blood. Pale and senseless, like a broken lily, she lay in his arms, as, with a heart ready to burst with anguish, Louis bore her into the house and laid her on a sofa. His cry brought Miss Hagar to the spot. She stood in the doorway, and with her usual calmness surveyed the scene. Celeste lay without life or motion on the sofa, and Louis bent over her, chafing her cold hands, and calling her by every tender and endearing name.
"Some of Minnette's handiwork," she said, coming forward; "poor little white dove, that vulture wouldtear out your very heart if she could. But my words will come true, and some day she will find out she has a heart herself, when it is torn quivering and bleeding in strong agony from the roots."
"Oh, Miss Hagar, do you think she is dead?" cried Louis, his brave, strong heart swelling and throbbing in an agony of grief.
"No; I hope not. Ring the bell," was her answer.
Louis obeyed; and having dispatched the servant who answered it for the doctor, she proceeded to wash the blood from the wound. Doctor Wiseman came in with the utmost indifference; listened to the story, said it was "just like Minnette;" thought it ten chances to one whether she would ever recover; gave a few general directions as to how she was to be treated, and went off to sip his coffee and read the newspaper.
Louis' indignation knew no bounds.
"Leave this detestable old house," he exclaimed impetuously, to Miss Hagar; "take Celeste over to Sunset Hall, and live with us. Grandfather is rough, but kind and generous; and you and poor little Celeste will be warmly welcomed.Docome, Miss Hagar."
"No, Louis," said Miss Hagar, shaking her head. "I thank you for your kind offer; but I cannot be dependent on anybody. No; I cannot go."
"But, good heavens! Miss Hagar, will you stay and let that hawk-heart Minnette kill this poor, gentle little soul, who is more like an angel than a living child."
"No," said Miss Hagar; "there is a cottage belonging to me about half a mile from here, at a place called Little Valley. You know it, of course. Well, I shall have it furnished; and as soon as Celeste recovers, if she everdoesrecover, poor child, I shall go there. Thank the Lord! I'm able to support myself; and there she will be beyond the power of Minnette."
"Beyond the power of Minnette," thought Louis, as he walked homeward. "Will sheeverbe beyond the power of that mad girl? What can have made her hate that angelic little creature so, I wonder?"
Ah, Louis! Ten years from hence willyouneed to ask that question?
The indignation of all at Sunset Hall at hearing of Minnette's outrageous conduct was extreme. The squire was sure that "bedeviled tigress would never die in bed." Mrs. Gower's fat bosom swelled with indignation, and even Lizzie managed to drawl out "it was positively too bad." And immediately after hearing it Mrs. Gower ordered out the sleigh, and loading it with delicacies for the little sufferer, set out for Deep Dale, where she found her raving in the delirium of a brain fever.
Days and weeks passed ere Celeste rose from her bed, pale and weak, and frailer than ever. Minnette, with proud, cold scorn, met the reproachful glances of those around her; and never betrayed, by word or act, the slightest interest in the sufferer. Only once, when Celeste for the first time entered the parlor, supported by Louis, did she start; and the blood swept in a crimson tide to her face, dyeing her very temples fiery red. She turned aside her head; but Celeste went over, and taking her unwilling hand, said, gently:
"Dear Minnette, how glad I am to see you once more. It seems such a long time since we met. Why did you not come to see me when I was sick?"
"You had more agreeable company," said Minnette, in a low, cold voice, glaring her fierce eyes at Louis as she arose. "Excuse me," and she passed haughtily from the room.
Miss Hagar's Valley Cottage was now ready for her reception; and as soon as Celeste could bear to be removed they quitted Deep Dale. Celeste shed a few tearsas she bade good-bye to the doctor and Minnette, but they were speedily turned to smiles as Louis gayly lifted her in his arms and placed her in the sleigh beside Archie. Then, seating himself on the other side of her, he shouted a merry adieu to Minnette, who seemed neither to see nor hear him as she leaned, cold and still, against the door. Miss Hagar took her seat in front with the driver; and off the whole party dashed.
As the spring advanced the roses once more bloomed upon the pale cheeks of Celeste; and the fair "Star of the Valley," as Master Louis had poetically named her, was known far and wide. Celeste had never been so happy before in her life. Every day brought Louis or Archie to the cottage, with books, flowers, or pictures, or something to present their "star" with. And as yet Celeste loved them both alike, just as she did Miss Hagar, just as she did Mrs. Gower. Though weeks and months passed away, Minnette never came near them. Sometimes Celeste went with the boys to see her; but her reception was always so cold and chilling that, fearing her visits displeased her, she at last desisted altogether.
And Minnette, strange girl that she was, lived her own life in secret. She sat in her own room, silent and alone, the livelong day; for after that eventful morning on which the statue was broken, she would go to school no more. With her chin leaning on her hand, she would sit for hours with her glittering black eyes fixed on the fire, thinking and thinking, while the doctor sat silently reading by himself, until finally Master Archie, with a jaw-splitting yawn, declared that hewouldgo and be a Sister of Charity if they'd take him; for of all the old tombs ever he heard of, Deep Dale beat them hollow.
"Leaping spirits bright as air,Dancing heart untouched by care,Sparkling eye and laughing brow,And mirthful cheek of joyous glow."
"Leaping spirits bright as air,Dancing heart untouched by care,Sparkling eye and laughing brow,And mirthful cheek of joyous glow."
"Leaping spirits bright as air,Dancing heart untouched by care,Sparkling eye and laughing brow,And mirthful cheek of joyous glow."
In the spring Louis and Archie were to go to New York and enter college. The squire, who was dying by inches of the inaction at Sunset Hall, resolved to accompany them; and Lizzie, rousing herself from her indolence, also resolved to accompany them. Doctor Wiseman intended sending Minnette to boarding-school, and Miss Hagar offered to send Celeste, likewise, if she would go; but Celeste pleaded to remain and go to the Sisters; and as it happened to be just what Miss Hagar wished, she consented.
n the spring Louis and Archie were to go to New York and enter college. The squire, who was dying by inches of the inaction at Sunset Hall, resolved to accompany them; and Lizzie, rousing herself from her indolence, also resolved to accompany them. Doctor Wiseman intended sending Minnette to boarding-school, and Miss Hagar offered to send Celeste, likewise, if she would go; but Celeste pleaded to remain and go to the Sisters; and as it happened to be just what Miss Hagar wished, she consented.
The evening before that fixed for the departure of the boys was spent by them at the Valley Cottage. Archie was in unusually boisterous spirits, and laughed till he made the house ring. Louis, on the contrary, was silent and grave, thinking sadly of leaving home and of parting with his friends.
Celeste, who always caught her tone from those around her, was one moment all smiles at one gay sally of Archie's, and the next sighing softly as her eye fell upon the grief-bowed young head of Louis. Miss Hagar sat by the fire knitting, as stiff, and solemn, and grave as usual.
"It will be a year—twelve whole months—before we all meet again," said Louis, with a sigh.
"Oh, dear!" said Celeste, her eyes filling with tears; "it will besolonesome. It seems to me the time will never pass."
"Oh, it will pass—never fear," said Archie, in the confident tone of one who knows he is asserting a fact; "and we'll come back young collegians—decidedly fast young men—Mirabile dictu—that's Latin—and I'll marry you, sis. Oh, I forgot Gipsy."
Here Archie's face suddenly fell to a formidable length, and he heaved a sigh that would have inflated a balloon.
"Oh, if Gipsy were here it wouldn't be a bit lonesome—I mean, not so much. Minnette's going away, too," said Celeste, sadly.
"Well, you needn't care for her, I'm sure," said Archie, gruffly. "She's as sharp as a bottle of cayenne pepper, and as sour as an unripe crab-apple. For my part, I'm glad to be out of the way of her dagger-tongue."
"Oh, Archie, please don't," said Celeste, gently. "How do you know but she likes you now, after all?"
"Likes me? Oh, that's too good. Hold me, somebody, or I'll split!" exclaimed Archie, going off into an inextinguishable fit of laughter at the very idea.
Louis rose and went to the door; Celeste followed him, leaving Archie to recover from his laughter and expatiate to Miss Hagar on the pleasures and prospects he hoped to enjoy in Gotham.
It was a beautiful moonlight night. The bright May moon shed a shower of silvery glory over the cottage, and bathed them in its refulgent light.
"Oh, Louis, what is the matter?" said Celeste, laying her hand on his arm. "Are you so sorry for leaving home?"
"I don't care for that, Celeste; I am sorry to leave you."
"But it's only for a year. I will be here when you come back."
"Will you, Celeste?"
"Why, yes, Louis, of course I will."
"Oh, no, you won't, Celeste. There will be something here taller and more womanly, who will talk and act like a young lady, and whom I will call Miss Pearl; but the little, gentle Celeste will be here no longer."
"Well, won't it be the same with you?" said Celeste, with an arch smile. "Something will come back taller and more manly, who will talk and act like a young gentleman, and whom I must call Mr. Oranmore, I suppose. But the Louis who brings me pretty books, and calls me 'the Star of the Valley,' I will never see again."
"Oh, Celeste, you know better than that. Will you think of me sometimes when I am gone?"
"Oh, yes, always. What a strange question! Why, I never thought of asking you to think of me, though you are going among so many strangers, who will make you forget all your old friends."
"You know I couldn't forget any of my old friends, Celeste, much less you. I shall think of you, and Miss Hagar, and Mrs. Gower, and—yes, and poor Gipsy every day. See, I have brought you a parting gift, Celeste, for your celestial little neck."
So saying, he drew out a little gold chain and cross, and threw it over the graceful neck that bent to receive it.
"Oh, thank you, dear Louis. I shall prize your gift so much. How kind and thoughtful of you! I wish I had something to give you in return."
"One of your curls will do."
"Will it? Oh, then you shall have it."
So saying, she drew out a tiny pair of scissors andsevered a long, shining ring of gold from her bright little head.
"Hallo! what's this? Exchanging true lovers' tokens, by all that's tender! Ha, ha, ha!" shouted Master Rivers, appearing suddenly, and roaring with laughter.
"Confound you!" muttered Louis, giving him a shake. "And now I must go and bid Miss Hagar good-bye. Archie, go off and bring the gig round. Celeste, stay here; I'll be with you again in a minute."
So saying, Louis entered the cottage, shook hands with the hoary spinster, who bade him be a good boy, and not bring back any city habits. Then going to the door, where Celeste still stood looking on her cross, and closing her eyes to force back the tears that were fast gathering in them, he took her in his arms and said:
"And now good-bye, little darling. Don't quite forget Louis."
"Oh, Louis," was all she could say, as she clung to his neck and sobbed on his shoulder.
He compressed his lips and resolutely unclasped her clinging arms; then pressing his lips to her fair brow, he leaped into the gig, seized the reins, and, in his excitement, dashed off, quite forgetting Archie, who had lingered to say good-bye to Celeste.
Archie rushed after him, shouting "Stop thief! stop thief!" until Louis, discovering his mistake, pulled up, and admitted that wronged and justly-indignant young gentleman.
"Now for Deep Dale, to bid good-bye to Minnette and Old Nick," said Archie, irreverently, "and then hie for Sunset Hall."
"Yes, poor Celeste," said Louis, with a sigh, evidently forgetting he had a companion; whereupon Archie again went into convulsions of laughter, kickingup his heels and snapping his fingers in an ectasy of delight. Louis found his example so contagious, that—after trying for a few moments to preserve his gravity—he, too, was forced to join in his uproarious mirth.
On their arrival at Deep Dale they found the doctor in his study. Louis bade him a formal farewell; and having learned that Minnette was in the parlor, he went down to seek her, accompanied by Archie.
She sat in her usual attitude, gazing intently out of the window at the cold moonlight. She looked up as they entered, and started violently as she perceived who were her visitors.
"Well, Minnette, we've come to bid you good-bye," said Archie, gayly, throwing his arms round her neck and imprinting a cousinly salute on her cheek. "Good-bye for twelve months, and then hie for home and a happy meeting. Louis, I leave you to make your adieux to Minnette, while I make mine to old Suse, down in the kitchen. Mind, Minnette, don't give him one of your curls, as I saw another little girl do awhile ago, unless he gives you a gold cross and chain in return for it—he gave her one." And with a mischievous laugh, Archie clattered down stairs, taking half the staircase at a bound.
She drew herself back and up; and the hand she had half extended to meet his was withdrawn, as, with a cold formal bow, she said:
"Farewell! I wish you a safe journey and a happy return."
"And nothing more? Oh, Minnette! Is it thus old friends, who have known each other from childhood, are to part? Just think, we may never meet again!"
"Do you care?" she asked, in a softened voice.
"Care! Of course I do. Won't you shake hands,Minnette! You're not half as sorry to let me go as little Celeste was."
"Oh, no; I don't lose so much. I have no books, nor flowers, nor visits, nor gold crosses to lose by your absence," she said, sarcastically—her face, that had softened for a moment, growing cold and hard at the mention of her name. "Good-bye Louis, and—I wish you all success and happiness."
The hand she extended was cold as ice. He pressed it between his, and gazed sadly into the clear, bright eyes that defiantly met his own.
"Come, Louis, don't stay there all night!" called Archie, impatiently. "Old Suse has been hugging and kissing me till I was half smothered, down there in the kitchen; and it didn't take her half the time it does you two. Come along."
"Good-bye! good-bye!" said Louis, waving his hand to Minnette, who followed him to the door; and the next moment they were dashing along at break-neck speed toward Sunset Hall.
The moonlight that night fell on Celeste, kneeling in her own little room, praying for Louis and Archie, and sobbing in unrestrained grief whenever her eye fell upon the bright gold cross—hisparting gift. Appropriate gift from one who seemed destined to never lay aught butcrossesupon her!
It fell upon Minnette, sitting still by the window, with a face as cold and white as the moonlight on which she gazed. She did not love Louis Oranmore; but she admired him—liked him better than any one else she knew, perhaps, because he was handsome. But she hated Celeste; and his evident preference for her kindled up the flames of jealousy in her passionate soul, until she could have killed her without remorse.
The next morning the gay party set out for NewYork; and in due course of time they reached that city, and put up at one of the best hotels.
"Suppose we go to the opera to-night?" said Lizzie to the squire, as she sat—all her languor gone—looking out of the window at the stream of life flowing below.
"Just as you like—it's all one to me," said the squire, with most sublime indifference.
"Then the opera be it," said Lizzie, and the opera, accordingly, it was. And a few hours later found them comfortably seated, listening to the music, and gazing on the gayly-attired people around them.
"How delightful this is!" exclaimed Lizzie, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.
"Humph!—delightful! Set of fools! 'All is vanity,' as Solomon says. Wonder who foots the bills for all this glittering and shaking toggery?" grunted the squire.
"I've heard them say that the youngdanseuse, 'La Petite Eaglet,' is going to dance to-night," said Louis. "Everybody's raving about her."
"Why? Is she so beautiful?" inquired Lizzie.
"No, I believe not; it's because she dances so well," replied Louis.
At this moment the curtain arose, a thunder of applause shook the house, and La Petite Eaglet herself stood before them. A little straight, lithe figure, arrayed in floating, gauzy robes of white silver tissue, and crowned with white roses—a small, dark, keen, piquant face—bright, roguish eyes, that went dancing like lightning around the house. Suddenly her eye fell on our party from St. Mark's; a slight start and a quick removal of her eyes followed. The applause grew deafening as the people hailed their favorite. She bowed. The music struck merrily up, and her tiny feet went glancing, like rain-drops, here and there. She seemedfloating in air, not touching the ground, as she whirled, and flew, and skimmed like a bird in the sunshine. The squire was dizzy—absolutely dizzy—looking at her. His head was going round, spinning like a top, or like her feet, as he gazed. Lizzie and Louis were entranced, but Archie, after the first glance, sat with dilating eyes and parted lips—incredulous, amazed, bewildered—with a look of half-puzzled, half-delighted recognition on his face.
Still the little dancer whirled and pirouetted before them; and when she ceased a shout of applause thundered through the building, shaking it to its center. Flowers, wreaths, and bouquets fell in showers around her; ladies waved their handkerchiefs and clapped their little hands in the excitement of the moment. The opera-going world seemed to have gone mad. And there stood the little Eaglet, bowing to the delighted audience, the very impersonification of self-possession and grace.
Suddenly, rising as if to speak, she removed the crown of roses from her head. There was a profound, a dead silence, where lately all had been uproar. Every eye was bent in wonder—every neck was strained to see what she was about to do.
Taking one step forward, she fixed her eyes on the box occupied by the squire and his family. Every eye, as a matter of course, turned in that direction likewise. Raising the wreath, she threw it toward them, and it alighted in triumph on the brow of the squire.
In a moment she was gone. Up sprang Archie, quite regardless of the thousands of eyes upon him, and waving his cap in the air above his head, he shouted, in wild exultation:
"I knew it! I knew it!It's our Gipsy!—it's Gipsy Gower!"