CHAPTER XX.

"It is a fearful night; a feeble glareStreams from the sick moon in the overclouded sky,The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry,Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare.What bark the madness of the waves will dare!"

—Byron.

Gipsy was once more at Sunset Hall. Archie had escorted her home and then returned to Washington. He would have mentioned their engagement to the squire, and asked his consent to their union, but Gipsy said:

ipsy was once more at Sunset Hall. Archie had escorted her home and then returned to Washington. He would have mentioned their engagement to the squire, and asked his consent to their union, but Gipsy said:

"No, you mustn't. I hate a fuss; and as I don't intend to be married for two or three years yet, it will be time enough to tell them all by and by."

So Archie, with a sigh, was forced to obey his capricious little love and go back, after making her promise to let him come down every month and see her; for she wouldn't write to him—it was "too much bother."

It began again to seem like old times at St. Mark's. There was Gipsy at Sunset Hall, keeping them all from dying of torpor, and astonishing the whole neighborhood by her mad freaks. There was Minnette—the proud, cold, but now beautiful Minnette—living alone at Deep Dale; for the doctor had gone from home on business. There was sweet Celeste, the Star of the Valley, in her little cottage home—the fairest, loveliest maiden the sun ever shone upon.

It was a lovely May morning. The air was made jocund with the songs of birds; the balmy breeze scarce rippled the surface of the bay, where the sunshine fell in golden glory.

Through the open doors and windows of Valley Cottage the bright May sunbeams fell warm and bright; they lingered in broad patches on the white floor, and touched gently the iron-gray locks of Miss Hagar, as she sat knitting in her leathern chair in the chimney-corner, as upright and gray as ever. Years seemed to pass on without touching her; for just as we first saw her at Lizzie Oranmore's bridal, the same does she appear to-day.

In the doorway stands a young girl, tall and graceful, dressed in soft gray muslin, fastened at her slender waist by a gold-colored belt.Canthis young lady be our little, shy Celeste? Yes; here is the same superb form, the same dainty little head, with its wealth of pale-gold hair; the same clear, transparent complexion; the soft, dove-like eyes of blue; the broad, white queenlyforehead; the little, rosy, smiling mouth. Yes, it is Celeste—celestial, truly, with the promise of her childhood more than fulfilled. The world and its flatterers—and she has heard many—have had no power to spoil her pure heart, and she has returned the same gentle, loving Celeste—the idol of all who know her, radiating light and beauty wherever she goes, a very angel of charity to the poor, and beloved and cherished by the rich. More hearts than Celeste likes to think of have been laid at her feet, to be gently and firmly, but sadly, refused; for that sound, unsullied heart has never yet been stirred by the words of man.

She stood in the doorway, gazing with parted lips and sparkling eyes on the balmy beauty of that bright spring morning, with a hymn of gratitude and love to the Author of all this beauty filling her mind.

Suddenly the sylvan silence of the spot was broken by the thunder of horse's hoofs, and the next instant Gipsy came bounding along upon the back of her favorite Mignonne.

"Good-morning, dear Gipsy," said Celeste, with her own bright smile, as she hastened to open the gate for her. "Have you been out, as usual, hunting this morning?"

"Yes, and there are the spoils," said Gipsy, throwing a well-filled game-bag on the ground. "I come like a true hunter—a leal knight of the gay greenwood—to lay them at the feet of my liege lady. I fancied a canvas-back duck and a bright-winged partridge would not come amiss this morning. I know my gallop has made me perfectly ravenous."

"You shall have one of them presently for breakfast," said Celeste, calling Curly, their little black maid-of-all-work. "Tie Mignonne there, and come in."

"By the way, Celeste, you don't seem to think it such an appalling act to shoot birds now as you used to," saidGipsy, springing from her horse; "it was once a crime of the first magnitude in your eyes."

"And I confess it seems a needless piece of cruelty to me still. I could scarcely do it if I were starving, I think."

"You always were—with reverence be it spoken—rather a coward, Celeste. Do you remember the day I shot the bird that Louis saved for you, and you fell fainting to the ground?" said Gipsy, laughing at the remembrance.

"Yes, I remember. I was rather an absurd little thing in those days," said Celeste, smiling. "How Ididlove that unlucky little bird!"

"Oh! that was because Louis gave it to you. There! don't blush. Apropos of Louis, I wonder where he is now?"

"In Rome, I suppose; at least Mrs. Oranmore told me so," replied Celeste.

"Yes; when last we heard from him he was studying the old masters, as he calls them—or the old grannies, as Guardy calls them. I shouldn't wonder if he became quite famous yet, and—oh, Celeste! where did you get that pretty chain and cross?" abruptly asked Gipsy, as her eye fell on the trinket.

"A present," said Celeste, smiling and blushing.

Gipsy's keen eyes were fixed on her face with so quizzical an expression, that the rose-hue deepened to crimson on her fair cheek as they passed into the house. And Gipsy went up and shook hands with Miss Hagar, and seated herself on a low stool at her feet, to relate the morning's adventures, while Celeste laid the cloth and set the table for breakfast.

After breakfast Gipsy rode off in the direction of Deep Dale. On entering the parlor she found Minnette sitting reading.

Minnette—now a tall, splendidly developed, womanly girl, with the proud, handsome face of her childhood—rose and welcomed her guest with cold courtesy. The old, fiery light lurked still in her black eyes; but the world had learned her to subdue it, and a coldly-polite reserve had taken the place of the violent outburst of passion so common in her tempestuous childhood.

"Don't you find it horribly dull here, Minnette?" said Gipsy, swallowing a rising yawn.

"No," replied Minnette; "I prefer solitude. There are few—none, perhaps—who sympathize with me, and in books I find companions."

"Well, I prefer less silent companions, for my part," said Gipsy. "I don't believe in making an old hermit or bookworm of myself for anybody."

"Every one to her taste," was the cold rejoinder.

"When do you expect your father home?" inquired Gipsy.

"To-night."

"Then he'll have a storm to herald his coming," said Gipsy, going to the window and scanning the heavens with a practiced eye.

"A storm—impossible!" said Minnette. "There is not a cloud in the sky."

"Nevertheless, we shall have a storm," said Gipsy. "I read the sky as truly as you do your books; and if he attempts to enter the bay to-night, I'm inclined to think that the first land he makes will be the bottom."

Minnette heard this intelligence with the utmost coolness, saying only:

"Indeed! I did not know you were such a judge of the weather. Well, probably, when they see the storm coming, they will put into some place until it is over."

"If they don't, I wouldn't give much for their chanceof life," said Gipsy, as she arose to go; "but don't worry, Minnette—all may be right yet."

Minnette looked after her with a scornful smile. Fret! She had little intention of doing it; and five minutes after the departure of Gipsy she was so deeply immersed in her book as to forget everything else.

As the day wore on and evening approached, Gipsy's prophecy seemed about to prove true. Dark, leaden clouds rolled about the sky; the wind no longer blew in a steady breeze, but howled in wild gusts. The bosom of the bay was tossing and moaning wildly, heaving and plunging as though struggling madly in agony. Gipsy seized her telescope, and running up to one of the highest rooms in the old hall, swept an anxious glance across the troubled face of the deep. Far out, scarcely distinguishable from the white caps of the billows, she beheld the sail of a vessel driving, with frightful rapidity, toward the coast—driving toward its own doom; for, once near those foaming breakers covering the sunken reefs of rocks, no human being could save her. Gipsy stood gazing like one fascinated; and onward still the doomed bark drove—like a lost soul rushing to its own destruction.

Night and darkness at last shut out the ill-fated ship from her view. Leaving the house, she hastily made her way to the shore, and standing on a high, projecting peak, waited for the moon to rise, to view the scene of tempest and death.

It lifted its wan, spectral face at last from behind a bank of dull, black clouds, and lit up with its ghastly light the heaving sea and driving vessel. The tempest seemed momentarily increasing. The waves boiled, and seethed, and foamed, and lashed themselves in fury against the beetling rocks. And, holding by a projecting cliff, Gipsy stood surveying the scene. You mighthave thought her the spirit of the storm, looking on the tempest she had herself raised. Her black hair and thin dress streamed in the wind behind her, as she stood leaning forward, her little, wild, dark face looking strange and weird, with its blazing eyes, and cheeks burning with the mad excitement of the scene. Down below her, on the shore, a crowd of hardy fishermen were gathered, watching with straining eyes the gallant craft that in a few moments would be a broken ruin. On the deck could be plainly seen the crew, making most superhuman exertions to save themselves from the terrible fate impending over them.

All in vain! Ten minutes more and they would be dashed to pieces. Gipsy could endure the maddening sight no longer. Leaping from the cliff, she sprang down the rocks, like a mountain kid, and landed among the fishermen, who were too much accustomed to see her among them in scenes like this to be much startled by it now.

"Will you let them perish before your eyes?" she cried, wildly. "Are you men, to stand here idle in a time like this? Out with the boats; and save their lives!"

"Impossible, Miss Gipsy!" answered half a dozen voices. "No boat could live in such a surf."

"Oh, great heaven! And must they die miserably before your very eyes, without even making an effort to save them?" she exclaimed, passionately, wringing her hands. "Oh, that I were a man! Listen! Whoever will make the attempt shall receive five hundred dollars reward!"

Not one moved. Life could not be sacrificed for money.

"There she goes!" cried a voice.

Gipsy turned to look. A wild, prolonged shriek of mortal agony rose above the uproar of the storm, andthe crew were left struggling for life in the boiling waves.

With a piercing cry, scarcely less anguished than their own, the mad girl bounded to the shore, pushed off a lightbatteau, seized the oars, and the next moment was dancing over the foaming waves.

A shout of fear and horror arose from the shore at the daring act. She heeded it not, as, bending all her energies to the task of guiding her frail bark through the tempestuous billows, she bent her whole strength to the oars.

Oh! surely her guardian angel steered that boat on its errand of mercy through the heaving, tempest-tossed sea! The salt spray seemed blinding her as it dashed in her face; but on she flew, now balanced for a moment on the top of a snowy hill of foam, the next, sunk down, down, as though it were never more to rise.

"Leap into the boat!" she cried, in a clear, shrill voice, that made itself heard, even above the storm.

Strong hands clutched it with the desperation of death, and two heavy bodies rolled violently in. The weight nearly overset the light skiff; but, bending her body to the oars, she righted it again.

"Where are the rest?" she exclaimed, wildly.

"All gone to the bottom. Give me the oars!" cried a voice.

She felt herself lifted from where she sat, placed gently in the bottom of the boat, and then all consciousness left her, and, overcome by the excitement, she fainted where she lay.

When she again opened her eyes she was lying in the arms of some one on the shore, with a circle of troubled, anxious faces around her. She sprang up wildly.

"Are they saved?" she exclaimed, looking around.

"Yes; thanks to your heroism, our lives are preserved," said a voice beside her.

She turned hastily round. It was Doctor Nicholas Wiseman. Another form lay stark and rigid on the sand, with men bending over him.

A deadly sickness came over Gipsy—she knew not why it was. She turned away, with a violent shudder, from his outstretched hand, and bent over the still form on the sand. All made way for her with respectful deference; and she knelt beside him and looked in his face. He was a boy—a mere youth, but singularly handsome, with a look of deep repose on his almost beautiful face.

"Is he dead?" she cried, in a voice of piercing anguish.

"No; only stunned," said the doctor, coming over and feeling his pulse.

"Take him to Sunset Hall, then," said Gipsy, turning to some of the men standing by.

A shutter was procured, and the senseless form of the lad placed upon it, and, raising it on their shoulders, they bore him in the direction of the old mansion-house.

Doctor Wiseman went toward his own home. And Gipsy, the free mountain maid, leaped up the rocks, feeling, for the first time in her life, sick and giddy. Oh! better, far better for her had they but perished in the seething waves!

"With gentle hand and soothing tongueShe bore the leech's part;And while she o'er his sick bed hungHe paid her with his heart."—Scott.

The sunshine of a breezy June morning fell pleasantly into the chamber of the invalid. It was a bright, airy room—a perfect paradise of a sick chamber—with its snowy curtained bed, its tempting easy-chair, its white lace window curtains fluttering softly in the morning air. The odor of flowers came wafted through the open casement; and the merry chirping of a bright-winged canary, hanging in the sunshine, filled the room with its cheerful music.

he sunshine of a breezy June morning fell pleasantly into the chamber of the invalid. It was a bright, airy room—a perfect paradise of a sick chamber—with its snowy curtained bed, its tempting easy-chair, its white lace window curtains fluttering softly in the morning air. The odor of flowers came wafted through the open casement; and the merry chirping of a bright-winged canary, hanging in the sunshine, filled the room with its cheerful music.

Reclining in the easy-chair, gazing longingly out at the glorious sunshine, sat the young sailor whose life Gipsy had saved. His heavy dark hair fell in shining waves over his pale, intelligent brow; and his large blue eyes had a look of dreamy melancholy that few female hearts could have resisted.

Suddenly his eye lighted up, and his whole face brightened, as a clear, sweet voice, singing a gay carol, met his ear. Gipsy still retained her old habit of singing as she walked; and the next moment the door opened, and she stood, like some bright vision, before him, with cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, and her countenance bright and radiant from her morning ride; her dark purple riding-habit setting off to the best advantage her straight, slight; rounded form; and her jaunty riding-hat, with its long, sweeping, sable plume, giving her the air of a young mountain queen, crowned with vitality, and sceptered with life and beauty.

"Oh, I have had such a charming canter over the hills this morning," she cried, with her wild, breezy laugh. "How I wished you had been well enough to accompany me. Mignonne fairly flew, leaping over yawning chasms and rocks as though he felt not the ground beneath him. But I am forgetting—how do you feel this morning?"

"Much better, sweet lady. Who could be long ill with such a nurse?" he replied, while his fine eyes lit up with admiration and gratitude.

Gipsy, be it known, had installed herself as the nurse of the young sailor; and, by her sleepless care and tender nursing, had almost restored him from death to life. And when he became convalescent, she would sit by his bedside for hours, reading, talking, and singing for him, until gratitude on his part ripened into fervent love; while she only looked upon him as she would on any other stranger—taking an interest in him only on account of his youth and friendliness, and because she had saved his life.

"Well, I'm glad to hear it, I'm sure! I want you to hurry and get well, so you can ride out with me. Are you a good horseman?"

"Yes, I think so," he said, smiling.

"Because, if you're not, you mustn't attempt to try our hills. It takes an expert rider, I can tell you, to gallop over them without breaking his neck."

"Yetyouventure, fairest lady."

"Me?Ha, ha! Why, I've been on horseback ever since I was two years old. My horse is my other self. I could as soon think of living without laughing as without Mignonne."

"Then, sweet lady, you will kindly be my teacher in the art of riding."

"Oh, I wouldn't want better fun; but look here, Mr. Danvers, don't be 'sweet lady'-ing me! I ain't used to it, you know. People generally call me 'Monkey,' 'Imp,' 'Torment,' 'Wretch,' and other pet names of a like nature. But if you don't like any of them, call me Gipsy, or Gipsy Gower, but don't call me 'sweet lady' again. You see, I never could stand nicknames."

"And may I ask you why you have received those names?" inquired the young midshipman (for such he was), laughing.

"Why, because Iaman imp, a wretch, and always was—and always will be, for that matter. I believe I was made to keep the world alive. Why, everybody in St. Mark's would be dead of the blues if it weren't for me."

"Yes; I have heard of some of your wild antics. That good old lady, Mrs. Gower, was with me last night, and we had quite a long conversation about you, I assure you."

"Poor dear aunty, she's at her wits' end, sometimes, to know what to do with me. And, by that same token, here she comes. Speak of somebody, and he'll appear, you know."

Mrs. Gower opened the door, flushed and palpitating with her walk up-stairs. Poor Mrs. Gower was "waxing fat" with years; and it was no easy task for her to toil her way up the long staircase of Sunset Hall.

"Oh, Gipsy, my dear!" she exclaimed, all in a glow of pleasurable excitement, "guess who's come!"

"Who, who?" cried Gipsy, eagerly.

"Archie!"

Up sprang Gipsy, flew past Mrs. Gower, and was down the stairs in a twinkling.

"Archie! who the deuce is he?" thought the young midshipman, with a jealous twinge.

"You seem to have brought Miss Gower pleasant news," he remarked, by way of drawing her out, after he had answered her inquiries about his health.

"Why, yes, it's natural she should be glad to meet her old playmate," replied the unsuspecting old lady.

"Ah! her old playmate. Then she has known him for a long time?"

"Yes; they were children together, grew up together, and were always fond of one another. It has always been my dearest wish to see them united; and I dare say they will be yet."

The youth's face was turned to the window as she spoke, or good Mrs. Gower might have been startled by his paleness. As he asked no more questions, the worthy old lady began to think he might wish to be left to himself; so, after a few general directions to be sure and take care of himself and not catch cold, she quitted the room.

Meantime, Archie and Gipsy were holding a very animated conversation in the parlor below. Archie was relating how he had undertaken a very important case, that would call him from home for four or five months; and that, when it was over, he would be rich enough to set up an establishment for himself, and return to St. Mark's to claim his little bride.

"And now, Gipsy," he concluded, "what mischief have you been perpetrating since I saw you last? Who have you locked up, or shot, or ran away with since?"

In reply, Gipsy related the story of the wreck, and went into ecstasies on the beauty of Mr. Harry Danvers, U. S. N. Archie listened with a savage frown, thatgrew perceptibly more savage every moment. Gipsy saw it, and maliciously praised him more and more.

"Oh, Archie, he's the handsomest fellow I ever met. So agreeable and polite, with such a beautiful, melancholy countenance!"

"Oh, curse his melancholy countenance!"

"For shame, sir! How can you speak so of my friends? But it's just like you. You always were a cross, disagreeable old thing—now then!"

"Yes; I'm not such a sweet seraph as this agreeable and polite young son of Neptune," said Mr. Rivers, with a withering sneer. "Just let me catch sight of his 'beautiful, melancholy countenance,' and maybe I'll spoil its beauty for him."

"Now, Archie, you're real hateful. I'm sure you'll like him when you see him."

"Like him! Yes, I'd like to blow his brains out."

"No, you mustn't, either; he's too handsome to be killed. Oh, Archie, when he laughs he looks so charming!"

"Confound him!I'llmake him laugh on the other side of his mouth!" growled the exasperated Archie.

"He's gotsucha sweet mouth andsuchlovely white teeth!" continued the tantalizing fairy.

"I wish he and his white teeth were at the bottom of the Red Sea!" burst out Archie, in a rage.

"Why, Mr. Rivers, you're positively jealous!" said Gipsy, looking very much surprised indeed.

"Jealous! Yes, I should think so. You are enough to drive any one jealous. Suppose I began raving about young ladies—their 'melancholy countenances,' and 'sweet mouths,' and 'white teeth,' and all such stuff—how would you like it, I want to know?"

"Why, I shouldn't care."

"You wouldn't? Oh, Jupiter Olympus! Only hearthat!" exclaimed Archie, striding up and down in a towering passion. "That shows all you care aboutme! Going and falling in love with the first old tarry sailor you meet! I won't endure it! I'll blow my brains out—I'll——"

"Well, don't do it in the house, then. Pistols make a noise, and might disturb Mr. Danvers."

Archie fell into a chair with a deep groan.

"There, don't look so dismal. I declare, you give me a fit of the blues every time you come to see me. Why can't you be pleasant, and laugh?"

"Laugh!" exclaimed poor Archie.

"Yes,laugh! I'm sure you used to be forever grinning. Poor, dear Mr. Danvers is sick, yethelaughs."

"Mr. Danvers again!" shouted Archie, springing to his feet. "May Lucifer twist Mr. Danvers' neck for him! I won't stay another minute in the house. I'll clear out, and never see you more. I'll never enter your presence again, you heartless girl!"

"Well, won't you take a cup of coffee before you go?" said Gipsy, with her sweetest smile.

"Hallo, Jupiter! Jupiter, I say, bring round my horse. And now, most faithless of women, I leave you forever. Life is now a blank to me; and, ere yonder sun sets, I shall be in eternity."

"Is it possible? Won't you write when you get there, and let me know if it's a good place for lawyers to settle in?"

Oh! such a groan as followed this! Casting a tragical look of despair at Gipsy, who sat smiling serenely, Archie rushed from the house.

Ten minutes later he was back again. Gipsy had stretched herself on a sofa, and was apparently fast asleep.

"Heartless girl!" exclaimed Archie, shaking her; "wake up, Gipsy!"

"Oh! is it you?" said Gipsy, drowsily opening her eyes. "What did you wake me up for? I thought you had started on your journey to eternity."

"Gipsy, shall I go?"

"Just as you please, Archie—only let me go to sleep, and don't bother me."

"Oh, Gipsy!—you cruel coquette! won't you bid me stay?"

"Well,stay, then! I wish to goodness you wouldn't be such a pest."

"Gipsy, tell me—do you love me or Mr. Danvers best?"

"I don't love either of you—there, now! And I tell you what, Archie Rivers, if you don't go off and let me get asleep, I'll never speak to you again. Mind that!"

With a deep sigh, Archie obeyed, and walked out of the room with a most dejected expression of countenance. No sooner was he gone than Gipsy sprang up, and, clapping her hands, danced round the room—her eyes sparkling with delight.

"Oh, it's such fun!" she exclaimed. "Poor, dear Archie!—if I haven't made him a victim to the 'green-eyed monster!' Mr. Danvers, indeed! As if that dear, good-natured Archie wasn't worth all the Mr. Danvers that ever adorned the quarterdeck! Oh! won't I flirt, though, and make the 'distinguished Mr. Rivers' so jealous, that he won't know whether he's standing on his head or his heels! If Iamto settle down into a hum-drum Mrs. Rivers some day, I'll have as much frolic as I can before it. So, Master Archie, look out for the 'wrath that's to come;' for your agonies won't move me in the least."

And never did any one keep her word more faithfullythan Gipsy. During the fortnight that Archie was to stay with them she flirted unmercifully with the handsome young midshipman, who was now able to ride out, quite unconscious of all the hopes she was rousing in his bosom. Poor Gipsy! little did she dream that, while she rode by his side, and bestowed upon him her enchanting smiles, and wore the colors he liked, and sang the songs he loved, to torment the unhappy Archie, that he, believing her serious, had already surrendered his heart to the bewitching sprite, and reposed in the blissful dream of one day calling her his!

Archie Riverswasjealous. Many were the ferocious glances he cast upon the young sailor; and many and dire were his threats of vengeance. But Gipsy, mad girl, only listened and laughed, and knew not thatanotherpair of ears heard those threats, and would one day use them to her destruction.

But matters were now drawing to a crisis. The young midshipman was now quite restored to health, and found himself obliged to turn his thoughts toward his own home. Archie's fortnight had elapsed; but still he lingered—too jealous to leave while his rival remained.

One bright moonlight night the three were gathered in the cool, wide porch in front of the mansion. Gipsy stood in the doorway—her white dress fluttering in the breeze—binding in her dark, glossy curls a wreath of crimson rosebuds, given her a few moments previous by Mr. Danvers. All her smiles, and words, and glances were directed toward him. Archie was apparently forgotten.

"Please sing one of your charming songs, Miss Gipsy; this is just the hour for music," said Mr. Danvers.

"With pleasure. What shall it be?—your favorite?"inquired Gipsy, taking her guitar and seating herself at his feet.

"If you will be so good," he replied, his eyes sparkling with pleasure at her evident preference.

Archie's brow grew dark. He hated the sailor's favorite song, because itwashis favorite. This Gipsy well knew; and her brown eyes twinkled with mischief, as she began, in her clear, sweet voice:

"'Sleeping, I dream, love—I dream, love, of thee;O'er the bright waves, love, floating with thee;Light in thy soft hair played the soft wind,Fondly thy white arms around me were twined;And as thy song, love, swelled o'er the sea,Fondly thy blue eyes beamed, love, on me.'"

She hesitated a moment, and looked up in his face, as though really intending the words for him. He was bending over her, pale and panting—his blue eyes blazing with a light that brought the crimson blood in a rosy tide to her very temples. She stopped abruptly.

"Go on!" he said, in a low voice.

She hesitated, glanced at Archie, and seeing the storm-cloud on his brow, the demon of mischief once more conquered her better nature, and she resumed:

"'Soon o'er the bright waves howled forth the gale,Fiercely the lightning flashed on our sail,And as our frail bark drove through the sea,Thine eyes, like loadstones, beamed, love, on me.Oh, heart, awaken!—wrecked on lone shore,Thou art forsaken!—dream, heart, no more.'"

Ere the last words were uttered, Archie had seized his hat and rushed from the house; and Danvers, forgetting everything save the entrancing creature at his feet, clasped her suddenly in his arms, and passionately exclaimed:

"Oh, Gipsy! my love! my life, my beautiful mountain sprite!—can you, will you love me?"

With a wild, sharp cry of terror and anger, she broke from his arms, and sprang back, with flashing eyes.

"Back, sir, back!—I command you! Howdareyou attempt such a liberty with me?"

How beautiful she looked in her wrath, with her blazing eyes, and crimson cheeks, and straight little form drawn up to its full height, in surprise and indignation.

He stood gazing at her for a moment—amazed, thunderstruck at the change. Then, seeing only her enchanting beauty, he took a step forward, threw himself at her feet, and broke forth passionately:

"Gipsy, I love you—I worship you. Have you been mocking me all this time?—or do you love me, too?"

"Rise, sir! I have neither been mocking you, nor do I love you! Rise! rise! Kneel not to me!"

"And I have been deceived? Oh, falsest of false ones! why did you learn me to love you?"

"Mr. Danvers, don't call me names. As to the learning you to loveme, I never attempted such a thing in my life! I'd scorn to do it," she said, indignantly; but even while she spoke, the blood rushed in a fiery torrent to her face, and then back to her heart, for she thought of all the encouragement her merciless flirtation must have given him.

"You did, Gipsy, you know youdid!" he vehemently exclaimed. "Every encouragement that could be given to a lover, you gave to me; and I—fool that I was—I believed you, never dreaming that I should find a flinty, hardened flirt in one whom I took to be a pure-hearted mountain maiden."

Had Gipsy felt herself innocent of the charge, how indignantly she would have denied it. But the consciousness of guilt sent the crimson once more to her brow, as she replied in a low, hurried tone:

"Mr. Danvers, I have done wrong! Forgive me! As heaven is my witness, I dreamed not that you cared for me. It was my mad, wild love of mischief brought all this about. Mr. Danvers, it is as yet a secret, but Mr. Rivers is my betrothed husband. Some fiend prompted me to make him jealous, and to accomplish that end I—I blush to say it—flirted with you; alas, never dreaming you thought anything of it. And now that I have acknowledged my fault, will you forgive me, and—be my friend?"

She extended her hand. He smiled bitterly, and passed her without touching it. Then leaving the house, he mounted his horse and galloped furiously away. Prophetic, indeed, were the words with which her song had ended—words that came pealing through the dim aisles of the forest after him, as he plunged frantically along:

"Oh, heart, awaken!—wrecked on lone shore,Thou art forsaken!—dream, heart, no more!"

Gipsy stood still in the porch, cold and pale, awaiting his return. But though she waited until the stars grew dim in the sky, he came not. Morning dawned, and found her pale with undefined fear, but still he was absent.

After breakfast, Archie came over, still angry and sullen, after the previous night's scene, to find Gipsy quieter and more gentle than he had ever seen her before in her life.

"I wish he would come! I wish he would come!" cried her wild, excited heart, as she paced up and down, until her eyes grew bright and her cheeks grew burning hot, with feverish watching and vague fear.

"You look ill and excited, Gipsy. A canter over the hills will do you good," said Archie, anxiously.

She eagerly assented, and leaping on Mignonne's back, dashed away at a tremendous pace, yet could not go half quick enough to satisfy her restless longing to fly, fly, she knew not where.

"Where are you going, Gipsy?" cried Archie, who found some difficulty to keep up with the break-neck pace at which she rode.

"To the Black Gorge," was her reply, as she thundered over the cliff.

"Why, Gipsy! what possesses you to go to that wild place?" said Archie, in surprise.

"I don't know—I feel as if I must go there! Don't talk to me, Archie! I believe I'm crazy this morning!"

She flew on swifter than ever, until they reached the spot—a huge, black, yawning gulf among the hills. She rode so close to the fearful brink that Archie's heart stood still in horror.

"Are you mad, Gipsy?" he cried, seizing her bridle-rein and forcing her back. "One false step, and your brains would be dashed out against the rocks."

But, fixing her eyes on the dark chasm, she answered him only by a wild, prolonged shriek, so full of piercing anguish that his blood seemed curdling in his veins, while, with bloodless face and quivering finger, she pointed to the gulf.

He leaped from his horse and approached the dizzy edge. And there a sight met his eyes that froze his heart with horror.

"Great God!" he cried, springing back, with a face deadly white. "A horse and rider lie dead and mangled below!"

A deadly faintness came over Gipsy; the ground seemed reeling around her, and countless stars dancedbefore her eyes. For a moment she was on the verge of swooning, then by a powerful effort the tide of life rolled back, and she leaped from her horse and stood by his side.

"It is impossible to reach the bottom," cried Archie, in a voice low with horror. "A cat could hardly clamber down those perpendicular sides."

"I can do it, Archie; I often went up and down there when a child," exclaimed Gipsy; and ere Archie could restrain her, the fearless girl had caught hold of a stunted spruce tree and swung herself over the edge of the appalling gorge.

Archie Rivers scarcely breathed; he felt as though he scarcely lived while she rapidly descended by catching the matted shrubs growing along its sides. She was down at last, and bending over the mangled form below.

"Gipsy! Gipsy! do you recognize him?" cried Archie.

She looked up, and he saw a face from which every trace of life seemed to have fled.

"Yes," she replied, hoarsely. "It is Danvers!Ride—ride for your life to Sunset Hall, and bring men and ropes to take him up!"

In an instant he was in the saddle, and off. In less than an hour he returned, with half the population in the village after him, whom the news of the catastrophe had brought together.

Ropes were lowered to Gipsy, who still remained where Archie had left her, and the lifeless form of the young man drawn up. Gipsy, refusing all aid, clambered up the side, and the mournful cavalcade set out for Sunset Hall.

He was quite dead. It was evident he had fallen, in the darkness, into the gorge, and been instantly killed. His fair hair hung, clotted with blood, round his forehead: and a fearful gash in the temple showed the wound whence his young life had flowed away. And Gipsy, feeling as though she were his murderess, sat by his side, and, gazing on the still, cold form, shed the first bitter tears that had ever fallen from her eyes. By some strange coincidence, it was in that self-same spot the dead body of Barry Oranmore had been found.

Poor Gipsy! The sunshine was fast fading out of her sky, and the clouds of fate gathering thick and fast around her. She wept now for another—knowing not how soon she was to weep for herself.

"A fearful sign stands in thy house of life—An enemy—a fiend lurks close behindThe radiance of thy planet. Oh, be warned!"

—Coleridge.

"And now a darker hour ascends."—Marmion.

Aweek after the event recorded in the last chapter Archie went back to the city. Before he went, he had obtained a promise from Gipsy—who had grown strangely still and gentle since the death of Danvers—to become his wife immediately upon his return; but, with her usual eccentricity, she refused to allow him to make their engagement public.

week after the event recorded in the last chapter Archie went back to the city. Before he went, he had obtained a promise from Gipsy—who had grown strangely still and gentle since the death of Danvers—to become his wife immediately upon his return; but, with her usual eccentricity, she refused to allow him to make their engagement public.

"Time enough by and by," was still her answer; and Archie was forced to be content.

Gipsy was, for a while, sad and quiet, but both wereforeign to her character; and, with the natural buoyancy of youth, she shook off her gloom, and soon once more her merry laugh made music through the old house.

Doctor Nicholas Wiseman sometimes made his appearance at Sunset Hall of late. Lizzie was suffering from a low fever; and as he was the only physician in St. Mark's, he was called in.

As he sat one day in the parlor at luncheon with the squire, Gipsy came tripping along with her usual elastic step, and touching her hat gallantly to the gentlemen, ran up to her own room. The squire's eyes followed her with a look of fond pride.

"Did you ever see such another charming little vixen?" he asked, turning to the doctor.

"Miss Gower's certainly an extraordinary young lady," said the doctor, dryly. "I have often been surprised, Squire Erliston, that you should treat your housekeeper's niece as one of your own family."

"She's not my housekeeper's niece," blurted out the squire; "she was——"

He paused, suddenly recollecting that the discovery of Gipsy was a secret.

"She was what?" said the doctor, fixing his keen eyes on the old man's face.

"Well, hang it, Wiseman, I suppose it makes no difference whether I tellyouor not. Gipsy is not Mrs. Gower's niece: she is a foundling."

"Yes," said the doctor, pricking up his ears.

"Yes, last Christmas Eve, just seventeen years ago, Mrs. Gower, returning from A——, found Gipsy lying on the beach, near the south end of the city."

Long habit had given Dr. Wiseman full control over his emotions, but now the blood rushed in a purple tide to his sallow face, as he leaped from his chair and fairly shouted:

"What!"

"Eh? Lord bless the man!—what's the matter?" said the squire, staring at him until his little fat eyes seemed ready to burst from their sockets.

"What did you say?—found her on the beach on Christmas Eve, seventeen years ago?" said the doctor, seizing him fiercely by the arm, and glaring upon him with his yellow eyes.

"Yes, I said so. What in the name of all the demons is the matter with you?" roared the squire, shaking him off. "What doyouknow about it?"

"Nothing! nothing! nothing!" replied the doctor, remembering himself, and sinking back in his chair. "Pray, go on."

The squire eyed him suspiciously.

"My dear sir," said the doctor, every trace of emotion now passed away, "forgive my violence. But, really, the story seemed so improbable——"

"Improbable or not, sir," interrupted the squire, angry at being doubted, "it's true as Gospel. It was a snowy, unpleasant night. Mrs. Gower and Jupiter were returning from the city, and took the shore road in preference to going over the hills. As they went along, Mrs. Gower was forced to get out on account of the dangerous road; and hearing a child cry, she stooped down, and found Gipsy lying wrapped up in a shawl, in the sand. Well, sir,myhousekeeper, as a matter of course—being a humane woman—brought the child (which could not have been a week old) home, and gave it her name. Andthat, sir, is the history of Gipsy Gower, let it seem ever so improbable."

Like lightning there flashed across the mind of the doctor the recollection of the advancing sleigh-bells which had startled him from the beach. This, then, was the secret of her disappearance! This, then, wasthe child of Esther Erliston and Alfred Oranmore! This wild, untamed, daring elf was the heiress, in her mother's right, of all the broad lands of the Erlistons. She had been brought up as a dependent in the house of which she was the rightful heiress: and the squire dreamed not that his "monkey" was his grandchild!

Thoughts like these flashed like lightning through the mind of Dr. Wiseman. The sudden, startling discovery bewildered him; he felt unequal to the task of conversing. And making some excuse, he arose abruptly, entered his gig, and letting the reins fall on his horse's neck, allowed him to make the best of his way home; while, with his head dropped on his breast, he pondered on the strange disclosure he had just heard.

No one living, it was evident, knew who she was, save himself. What would old Dame Oranmore say when she heard it? Wretch as he was, he found himself forced to acknowledge the hand of a ruling Providence in all this. The child who had been cast out to die had been nurtured in the home that was hers by right. Byhishand the mother had perished; yet the heroism of the daughter had preserved his worthless life.

"What use shall I make of this discovery?" he mused, as he rode along. "How can I turn it to my own advantage? If I wish it, I can find little difficulty in convincing the world that she is the rightful heiress of Mount Sunset, instead of Louis Oranmore. But how to do it, without implicating myself—that's the question. There was no witness to the death-bed scene of Esther Erliston; and I can assert that Madam Oranmore caused me to remove the child, without mentioning the mother at all. I can also easily feign some excuse for leaving her in the snow—talk about my remorse and anguish at finding her gone, and all that. Now, if I could only getthis hare-brained girl securely in my power, in such a way as to make her money the price of her freedom, I would not hesitate one moment about proclaiming it all. But how to get her in my power—she is keen and wide-awake, with all her madness, and not half so easily duped as most girls of her age. Let me think!"

His head fell lower, his claw-like hands opened and shut as though clutching some one, his brows knit in a hard knot, and his eyes seemed burning holes in the ground, with their wicked, immovable gaze.

At last, his mind seemed to be made up. Lifting his head, he said, with calm, grim determination:

"Yes, my mind is made up; that—girl—shall—be—my—WIFE!"

Again he paused. His project, when repeated aloud, seemed so impossible to accomplish that it almost startled him.

"It may be difficult to bring about," he said, as if in answer to his momentary hesitation. "No doubt it will; but, nevertheless, it shall, it will, itmustbe done! Once her husband, and I shall have a legal right to everything she possesses. The world need not know I have made the discovery until after our marriage; it shall think it is for love I marry her. Love!—ha, ha, ha! Just fancy Dr. Wiseman, at the age of fifty-nine, falling in love with a chit of a girl of seventeen! Well, I shall set my wits to work; and if I fail to accomplish it, it will be the first time I have ever failed in aught I have undertaken. She calls me a spider; let her take care lest she be caught—lest her bright wings are imprisoned in the web I will weave. Her opposition will be fierce and firm; and, if I have studied her aright, she can only be conquered through those she loves. That she loves that whipper-snapper of a nephew of mine, I have long known; and yet that very love shall make her becomemy wife. And so my bright little Gipsy Gower—or Gipsy Oranmore—from this day forth you are mine!"

"Look here, aunty," said Gipsy, following Mrs. Gower, as she wandered through the house, brush in hand, "what brings that old spider here so often of late? He and Guardy appear to be as thick as two pickpockets—though, a few years ago, Guardy detested the sight of him. They are for everlasting closeted together, plotting something. Now, aunty, it looks suspicious, don't it?"

"I am afraid Dr. Wiseman is drawing your guardian into some rash speculation," said Mrs. Gower. "The squire is always muttering about 'stocks,' and 'interest,' and such things. I am afraid the doctor is using him for his own purposes. Heaven forgive me if I wrong him!"

"Wrong him! I tell you, aunty, that Spider's a regular snake. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could see him. He has a way of looking at me that I don't half like. Whenever I'm in the room he stares and stares at me, as if I were some natural curiosity. Perhaps he's falling in love with me. There! I tell you what, aunty—I've just hit the right thing in the middle—he's meditating whether or not he'll raise me to the dignity of Mrs. Spider Wiseman—I know he is!" exclaimed Gipsy, laughing, little dreaming how near she had stumbled to the truth.

"Nonsense, child. A man of Dr. Wiseman's age and habits has little thought of taking a wife, much less such a wild one as you. I hope it may all turn out well, though I have my doubts."

"So have I," said Gipsy; "and I'm going to keep a bright lookout for breakers ahead. If that yellow old ogre tries to bamboozle poor, dear, simple Guardy, he'll find himself in a worse scrape than when I saved himfrom drowning. I know I was born to be a knight-errant, and protect innocent old men, and astonish the world generally. And now I must run up stairs, and see if I can do anything for poor little Aunt Liz."

While Gipsy was conversing with Mrs. Gower, a dialogue of a different nature was going on in the parlor betwixt the squire and the doctor.

Artfully had Dr. Wiseman's plans been laid, and skillfully were they executed. With his oily, persuasive words, and flattering tongue, he had got the squire completely and irrecoverably in his power, in order that the hand of his ward might be the price of his freedom.

Dr. Wiseman knew the squire always had a mania for speculating. Taking advantage of this, he entrapped him into investing in some mad scheme, which failed, as the doctor well knew it would, leaving the squire hopelessly in debt. Of all his creditors he owed the doctor himself the most; for that obliging man had insisted on lending him large sums of ready money. And now the time of payment was at hand, and where should he obtain the money?

Squire Erliston was rich—that is, the estate of Mount Sunset was in itself a princely fortune; but this was to descend to his grandson; and the squire had too much pride to allow it to go to him burdened with debt. Neither could he mortgage any part of it to pay off the debt. He felt that his heir ought not to suffer for his own madness. Besides, he did not wish his grandson to know how egregiously he had allowed himself to be duped by a set of sharpers. Therefore he now sat listening to the doctor, half-stupefied at learning the extent of his losses—the amount of debts which he had no means of paying; while the doctor condoled with him outwardly, and chuckled inwardly at the success of his plans.

"Moore, to whom you are indebted to the amount oftwenty thousand dollars, even goes so far as to threaten law proceedings if he is not immediately paid," said the doctor, continuing the conversation.

The squire groaned.

"I told him it might not be convenient for you to meet so many heavy liabilities at once; but he would not listen to reason—said he would give you a week to deliberate, and if at the end of that time the money was not forthcoming, yourrascality, as he termed it, should be openly proclaimed to the world, and the law would force you to pay."

"Oh, Lord!" said the squire, writhing inwardly.

"His intention, without doubt, is to obtain a claim on Mount Sunset; and, your other creditors joining him, the whole estate will finally become theirs."

"Never!" shouted the squire, leaping fiercely to his feet. "I will shoot every villain among them first! Mount Sunset has been in our family for years, and no gang of swindlers shall ever possess it."

"My dear sir," said the doctor, soothingly, "do not be excited. It is useless, and will only make matters worse. You see you are completely in their power, and there is no possible hope of escape. In spite of all you can do, I fear Mount Sunset will be theirs, and you and your family will be turned out upon the world, comparatively speaking, beggars."

The unhappy squire sank back in his chair; and, covering his face with his hands, writhed and groaned in mental torture.

"Your only course now," continued the merciless doctor, fixing his snake-like eyes with lurking triumph on his victim, "is to write to your grandson, confess all to him, and bring him home. He is an artist of some note, they say. Most probably, therefore, he will be ableto support you—though it may seem strange to him first to work for his living."

"Work for his living!" shouted the squire, maddened by the words. "Louis Oranmore work for his living! No, sir! he has not sunk so low as that yet. If need be, he has the property of his grandmother Oranmore still remaining."

"The property of Mrs. Oranmore will not be his until her death, which may not be this ten years yet. She is hard and penurious, and would hardly give him a guinea to keep him from starving. Besides, wouldyou, Squire Erliston, live on the bounty of Mrs. Oranmore?" said the doctor, with a sarcastic sneer.

"No, sir; I would die of starvation first!" replied the squire, almost fiercely. "But she, or some one else, might lend me the money to pay off these accursed debts."

"Not on such security as you would give, Squire Erliston," said the doctor, calmly. "In fact, my dear sir, it is useless to think of escaping your fate. Mount Sunsetmustbe given up to satisfy these men!"

"Oh, fool! fool! fool!—miserable old fool that I was, to allow myself to be so wretchedly duped!" groaned the squire, in bitter anguish and remorse. "Better for me had I never been born, than that such disgrace should be mine in my old age! And Louis!—poor Louis! But I will never see him again. If Mount Sunset be taken from me it will break my heart. Every tree and picture about the old place is hallowed by the memory of the past; and now that I should lose it through my own blind, miserable folly! Oh! woe is me!" And, burying his great head in his hands, the unhappy old man actually sobbed outright.

Now had the hour of Dr. Wiseman's triumph come; now was the time to make his daring proposal. Awhilehe sat gloating over the agonies of his victim; and then, in slow, deliberate tones, he said:

"But in all this darkness, Squire Erliston, there still remains one ray of light—onesolitary hope. What would you do if I were to offer to cancel what you owe me, to pay off all your other debts, and free you once more?"

"Do!" exclaimed the squire, leaping in his excitement from the chair. "Do, did you say? I tell you, Dr. Wiseman, there is nothing under heaven I wouldnotdo. But you—you only mock me by these words."

"I do not, Squire Erliston. On one condition your debts shall every one be paid, and Mount Sunset still remain yours."

"And that condition! For Heaven's sake name it!" cried the squire, half maddened by excitement.

"Will you agree to it?"

"Yes, though you should even ask my life!"

"Thatwould be of little service to me," said the doctor, with a dry smile. "No; I ask something much easier."

"For Heaven's sake name it!" exclaimed the squire, wildly.

"It is——"

"What?"

"The hand of your ward, Gipsy Gower."

The squire stood like one transfixed with amazement, his eyes ready to shoot from his head with surprise and consternation. And calmly before him sat the doctor, his leathern countenance as expressionless as ever.

"Whatdid you say?" said the squire, at length, as though doubting the evidence of his senses.

"My words were plainly spoken. I will free you from all your debts on condition that you bestow uponme in marriage the hand of your young ward, Gipsy Gower."

"But—Lord bless me! mydearsir, what in the world canyouwant with that chit of a child—that mad girl of the mountains—for a wife?" exclaimed the squire, still aghast.

"Iwanther, let that suffice," said the doctor, with a frown. "Do you agree to this proposal?"

"Why,I'mwilling enough, butshe—oh, Dr. Wiseman, the thing is hopeless—she'd never consent in this world. She can be as obstinate as a little mule when she likes. 'When a woman won't, she won't, and there's the end on't,' as Solomon says."

"You must make her."

"Me! Why, she doesn't mindme——"

"Squire Erliston," angrily broke in the doctor, "listen to me; either you lose Mount Sunset and are publicly disgraced, or you will compel this girl to marry me. Do you hear?"

"There! there! don't be hasty! I'll do what I can. It won't be my fault if she don't. But who'd ever think ofyouwanting to marry little Gipsy. Well, well, well, 'Wonders will never cease,' as Solomon says."

"You can explain the matter to her—urge her by her gratitude, her love for you, to consent," said the doctor; "try the sentimental dodge—commands in this case will be worse than useless. Enlist the women on your side; and above all things keep it a profound secret from Archibald Rivers and Louis Oranmore. If none of your arguments move her, I have still another in reserve that I know will clinch the business. Give her no rest, day or night, until she consents; and if she complains of cruelty, and all that, don't mind her. All girls are silly; and she, being half-crazy, as she is, it seems to me the greatest favor you can do her is to marry her to a manof sense and experience like myself. Keep in mind what you lose by her refusal, and what you gain by her consent. If she will not marry me, I will add my claims to those of your other creditors, and no earthly power will be able to save you from total ruin," said the doctor, with grim, iron determination.

"She shall consent! she shall—shemust!" said the squire, startled by his last threat; "she shall be your wife, that is settled. I think I can manage her, though itwillbe a desperate struggle."

"I shall force myself into her presence as little as possible," said the doctor, calmly; "she has no particular love for me as yet, and it will not help on my case. Mind, I shall expect you will use all your energies, for our marriage must take place in a month at farthest," said the doctor, as he arose, and, with a last expressive glance at his victim, withdrew.

Back to Index Next