"Hell has no fury like a woman scorned,"
"Hell has no fury like a woman scorned,"
"Hell has no fury like a woman scorned,"
and began to fear that, after all, Mount Sunset was purchased at a dear price.
"Be it so! we part forever—Let the past as nothing be;Had I only loved thee, neverHadst thou been thus dear to me."More than woman thou wast to me—Not as man I looked on thee;Why, like woman, then, undo me?Why heap man's worst curse on me?"—Byron.
"Be it so! we part forever—Let the past as nothing be;Had I only loved thee, neverHadst thou been thus dear to me."More than woman thou wast to me—Not as man I looked on thee;Why, like woman, then, undo me?Why heap man's worst curse on me?"—Byron.
"Be it so! we part forever—Let the past as nothing be;Had I only loved thee, neverHadst thou been thus dear to me.
"More than woman thou wast to me—Not as man I looked on thee;Why, like woman, then, undo me?Why heap man's worst curse on me?"—Byron.
It was the evening of Gipsy's wedding-day—a wet, chilly, disagreeable evening, giving promise of a stormy, tempestuous night—fit weather for such a bridal!
t was the evening of Gipsy's wedding-day—a wet, chilly, disagreeable evening, giving promise of a stormy, tempestuous night—fit weather for such a bridal!
Lights were already gleaming in the cottages of the villagers, and the large parlor of the "Innof St. Mark's" was crowded—every one discussing the surprising wedding up at the Hall, and wondering what Miss Gipsy would do next—when, as James says, "a solitary horseman might have been seen," riding at a break-neck pace toward Deep Dale. The house looked dreary, dark, and dismal—unlighted save by the glare from one window. Unheeding this, the "solitary horseman" alighted, and giving his horse to the care of the servant, ran up the stairs and unceremoniously burst into the parlor, where Minnette Wiseman sat reading alone. All her father's entreaties and commands to be present at his wedding were unheeded. She had heard the news of his approaching marriage with the utmost coolness—a stare of surprise from her bright black eyes being the only outward emotion it caused.
"Why should I go to see you married?" was her impatient reply to his stern commands. "I care nothing for Gipsy Gower, nor she for me. You can be married just as well without me. I won't go!"
Therefore she sat quietly reading at home while the nuptial revelry was at its height in Sunset Hall, and looked up, with an exclamation of surprise, to see our traveler standing before her.
"Archie! what in the world broughtyouhere?" she exclaimed, rising, and placing a chair for him before the fire.
"Rail-cars part of the way, steamer next, and, finally, my horse."
"Don't be absurd. Why have you come to Saint Mark's? No one expected you here these three months."
"Know it, coz. But I've found out I am the luckiest dog in creation, and ran down here to tell you andanotherparticular friend I have. I suppose you have heard of Uncle John Rivers, my father's brother. Yes! Well,about four months ago he returned from Europe, with one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and the consumption. Though he never had the honor of my acquaintance, he knew there existed so distinguished an individual, and accordingly left the whole of his property to me; and a few weeks after, gave up the ghost. You see, therefore, Minnette, I'm a rich man. I've pitched law to its patron saint, the—hem!—and started off down here post-haste to marry a certain little girl in these diggin's, and take her with me to see the sights in Europe."
"My dear cousin, I congratulate you. I presume Miss Pearl is to be the young lady of your choice."
"No; Celeste is too much of an angel for such a hot-headed scamp as I am. I mean another little girl, whom I've long had apenchantfor. But where's your father?"
Minnette laughed sarcastically.
"Getting married, I presume. This night my worthy parent follows the Scriptural injunction, and takes unto himself a wife."
"Nonsense, Minnette!—you jest."
"Do I?" said Minnette, quietly. "I thought you knew me well enough now, Archie, to know I never jest."
"But, Minnette, it is absurd. Dr. Wiseman married in his old age. Why, it's a capital joke." And Archie laughed uproariously. "Who is the fortunate lady that is to be your mamma and my respected aunt?"
"Why, no other than that little savage, Gipsy Gower."
Had a spasm been suddenly thrust into Archie's heart, he could not have leaped more convulsively from his seat. Even the undaunted Minnette drew back in alarm.
"What did you say?" he exclaimed, grasping herarm, unconsciously, with a grip of iron. "To whom is he to be married?"
"To Aurora Gower. What do you mean, sir? Let go my arm."
He dropped it, staggered to a chair, dropped his head in his hands, and sat like one suddenly struck by death.
"Archie, whatisthe matter?" said Minnette, looking at him in wonder. "Was Gipsy the one you came here to marry?"
"Minnette! Minnette! it cannot be true!" he exclaimed, springing to his feet, without heeding her question. "It is absurd—monstrous—impossible! My wild, free, daring Gipsy would never consent to marry a man she abhorred. For Heaven's sake, Minnette, only say you have been jesting!"
"I have spoken the truth," she answered, coldly. "My father this morning married Aurora Gower!"
"Great heavens! I shall go mad! What in the name of all the saints tempted her to commit such an act?"
"I know not. Most probably it is one of her strange freaks—or, perhaps, she thinks papa rich, and married him for his money. At all events, married him she has; her reasons for doing so I neither know nor care for."
"Heaven of heavens! Could Gipsy—she whom I always thought the pure, warm-hearted child of nature—commit so base an act? It cannot be! I willneverbelieve it! By some infernal plot she has been entrapped into this unnatural marriage, and dearly shall those who have forced her rue it!" exclaimed Archie, treading up and down the room like one distracted.
"You alwaysthoughther simple and guileless; I alwaysknewher to be artful and ambitious. She has notbeen entrapped. I have heard that she laughs as merrily as ever, and talks more nonsense than she ever did before in her life—in short, appears perfectly happy. She is too bold and daring to be entrapped. Besides, what means could they use to compel her? If she found them trying to tyrannize over her, she would run off as she did before. Nonsense, Archie! Your own sense must tell you she has married him willingly."
Every word was like a dagger to his heart. He dropped into a chair, buried his face in his hands, and groaned.
"Oh, Gipsy! Gipsy!—lost to me forever. What are wealth and honor to me now! For you I toiled to win a home and name, believing you true. And thus I am repaid for all. Oh, is there nothing but treachery and deceit in this world? Would to heaven," he added, springing fiercely up, and shaking back his fair, brown hair, "that the man she has wedded were not an old dotard like that. I would blow his brains out ere another hour."
"My father will, no doubt, rejoice to find his years have saved his life," said Minnette, in her customary cold tone. "Pray, Mr. Rivers, be more calm; there is no necessity for all this excitement. If Aurora Gower has deserted you for one whom she supposed wealthier, it is only the old story over again."
"The old story!" exclaimed Archie, bitterly. "Yes, the old story of woman's heartlessness and treachery, and man's blind self-deception. Be calm! Yes; if you had told me she whom I love above all on earth was dead, and in her grave, I might be calm; but the wife of another, and thatother"—he paused, and ground his teeth with impotent rage.
"Well, since it is so, and cannot be helped, what's theuse of making such a time about it?" said Minnette, impatiently, taking up her book and beginning to read.
Archie glanced at the cold, stone-like girl before him, whose very calmness seemed to madden him; then, seizing his hat, he rushed from the room, exclaiming:
"Yes, I will see her—I will confront her once more, accuse her of her deceit and selfishness, and then leave the country forever."
He was out of the house in an instant; and in five minutes was galloping madly through the driving wind and rain, unheeded and unfelt, now toward Mount Sunset Hall.
The numberless blazing lights from the many windows illumined his path before it; the sound of revelry was wafted to his ears by the wind, making him gnash his teeth in very rage.
He reached the mansion, threw the reins to one of the many servants standing in the court-yard; and all wet and travel-stained, pale, wild, and excited as he was, he made his way through the wondering crowd, that involuntarily made way for him to pass; and
"So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all.But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented—the gallant came late."
"So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all.But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented—the gallant came late."
"So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all.But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented—the gallant came late."
Heeding not the many curious eyes bent upon him, still he strode on, until he stood within the crowded drawing-room.
Amid all that throng his eye saw but one face, beheld but one form. Standing near the upper end of the room was Gipsy—hisGipsy once—looking far more beautiful than he had ever seen her before, and flirting with all her might with a dashing lieutenant.
Having gained her point, to be married in black, shehad exchanged her dismal robes for the gorgeous wedding-dress that fell around her in folds of light. Pearls flashed amid her raven curls, gleamed in her ears, shone on her white arms, and rose and fell on her restless bosom. She needed no rouge, for her cheeks were vivid crimson, her lips red and glowing, her eyes outshining the jewels she wore. Never had Gipsy been so lovely, so bewildering, so intoxicating before.
The very sight seemed to madden Archie. To see her there in all her dazzling beauty, the wife of another, laughing and talking as gayly as thoughhehad never existed, nearly drove him to desperation. Striding through the crowd of gay revelers, who drew back in alarm from his wild, pale face and fierce eyes, he advanced through the room, and stood before the bride.
There was an instantaneous hush through the room. Dr. Wiseman, already sullen and jealous, sprang up from the distant corner to which he had retreated, but did not venture to approach.
Gipsy's graceful head was bent in well-affected timidity as she listened to the gallant words and whispered compliments of the gay young officer, when, suddenly looking up, she beheld a sight that froze the smile on her lip, the light in her eye, the blood in her veins, the very life in her heart. Every trace of color faded from her face, leaving her white as the dead; her lips parted, but no sound came forth.
"So, Mrs. Wiseman, I see you recognize me!" he said, with bitter sarcasm. "Allow me to congratulate you upon this joyful occasion. Do not let the recollection that you have perjured yourself to-day before God's minister, mar your festivity to-night. No doubt the wealth for which you have cast a true heart aside, and wedded a man you loathe, will make you completely happy. As I leave America forever to-morrow, I wished to offer mycongratulations to the 'happy pair' before I went. I was fool enough, at one time, to believe the promises you made me; but I did not then know 'how fair an outside falsehood hath.' Farewell, Mrs. Wiseman! you and I will never meet again. All your treachery, all your deceit, your heartlessness, is known to me, and I will never trouble you more!"
He turned, left the house, sprang on his horse, and was out of St. Mark's ere any one had recovered from their astonishment and stupefaction sufficiently to speak.
He heard not, as he rode along, the wild, piercing cry of anguish that broke from the lips of the bride, as she fell senseless to the ground. He knew not, as he stood on the deck of the steamer, next morning, bound for "merrie England," that the once free, wild, mountain huntress, the once daring, defying Gipsy, lay raving and shrieking in the wild delirium of brain fever, calling always in vain for him she had lost. They had caught the young eaglet, and caged it at last; but the free bird of the mountains lay wounded and dying in their grasp.
"A look of pride, an eye of flame;A full-drawn lip that upward curled;An eye that seemed to scorn the world."—Scott.
"A look of pride, an eye of flame;A full-drawn lip that upward curled;An eye that seemed to scorn the world."—Scott.
"A look of pride, an eye of flame;A full-drawn lip that upward curled;An eye that seemed to scorn the world."—Scott.
It was a merry morn in June, many months after the events related in the last chapter. A brief retrospective glance it is necessary to take ere we proceed.
t was a merry morn in June, many months after the events related in the last chapter. A brief retrospective glance it is necessary to take ere we proceed.
For many long weeks after the fatal night of her marriage, Gipsy lay hovering between life and death; and Celeste came, with her loving heart, and gentle voice, and noiseless footstep, and, unheeding rest or sleep, nursed the poor, pale, crazed little bride back to life. No one else would Gipsy have near her—not even Aunty Gower; and a physician from the city attended her—for the very mention of her detested bridegroom threw her into hysterics. But, notwithstanding all their care, long months passed away ere Gipsy was well again, and Celeste, worn and wearied, but uncomplaining, permitted to return to the peaceful solitude of Valley Cottage.
Dr. Wiseman had not yet breathed a syllable of Gipsy's parentage. He could not do so during her illness; and when she recovered, he wished a decent interval of time to elapse ere he made it known, lest the world should suspect his previous knowledge of it had caused him to marry her. Besides, he found there was no cause to hurry; for, during Gipsy's illness, the squire had invited him to shut up his house at Deep Dale, andbring Minnette with him, to reside at Sunset Hall. To this the doctor eagerly assented; and having, with some trouble, prevailed upon Minnette to accompany him, Deep Dale was rented, and the doctor and his daughter became domesticated at Mount Sunset Hall.
Nearly nine months had elapsed. Gipsy—now as well as ever, and more daring and mischievous even than before—had just set herself to work to begin fulfilling the vow she had made, and soon succeeded in driving the doctor nearly wild. Though he had merely married her for her money, he had, as time passed on, learned to love her with a strange, selfish, absorbing passion; and the more she mocked, and scorned, and laughed at him, the more infatuated he grew. The wilful elf kept her husband in a constant state of panic and terror, running into the greatest dangers with the utmost recklessness, and often barely escaping with her life. Out all hours of the day and night, sometimes not coming home until morning, it is not to be wondered at that she kept the whole household in alarm. Often after midnight, going out to search for her, they would find her riding among the rocks, or, having tied up Mignonne, she would be discovered asleep in some grotto or cavern. Then her flirting! The doctor was madly jealous, and not without reason. There was not a man under thirty, if at all presentable, but the reckless girl had flirted unmercifully with, in a way that would have completely destroyed the reputation of any other woman, but which was merely noticed by the remark that it was "just like Gipsy;" and her maddest actions were listened to with a smile and a stare of astonishment, and a "wonder what she'll do next?" Poor, half-crazed little Gipsy! The real goodness of her nature was too apparent to all through her outward recklessness to make them suspect her of evil.
St. Mark's had become a much gayer place than when we first knew it. Many new families had moved hither from the city; and balls, and parties, and sleigh-rides in winter, and picnics, and excursions, and soirees, in summer, became all the rage; and the leader of all these was the "merry little Mrs. Wiseman," as these new-comers called her. And no one, to see her entering heart and soul into these festivities, would ever dream of the miserable secret weighing on her mind, or the still untamed, restless heart that struggled to find forgetfulness in constant gayety.
They had never heard of Archie since his departure, save once through Louis, who, in one of his letters, spoke of having met him in Paris. No one mentioned his name at Sunset Hall. Gipsy especially, even in the remotest way, never alluded to him; and the good, obtuse family began to hope she had quite forgotten him.
And now we have come back to that merry morn in June with which this chapter opened. Gipsy, arrayed in a tasteful riding-habit, which she held up with one hand, while in the other she held a silver-mounted riding-whip, stood in the breezy park, watching her horse, that was neighing impatiently to be off. Mrs. Gower stood behind her, looking troubled and anxious.
"My dear Gipsy," she was saying, "I wish you would not go out this morning. What will people say to see you out riding, and your husband having fallen from his horse, and broken two of his ribs and his leg, last night?"
"I wish it had been his neck!"
"Oh, child! don't say such sinful, wicked things. Of course, I know you don't mean them; but then it's very wrong."
"I don't care, aunty; Idowish it—there! I don't see what possesses him to cumber the earth so long. Ifhe doesn't give up the ghost soon, I'll administer a dose of hemp some night—for I do believe his destiny is hanging. If there ever was a neck made for a rope, it's his—just the shape for it. Jupe, mind what you're at there. Don't let Mignonne get all over dust."
"Gipsy, you will stay?"
"Iwon'tstay, aunty—not if it were Dr. Wiseman's neck, instead of his ribs, that was broken. Oh, yes, I would, too; I'd stay home then for joy. I'm off now. Good-bye. If his worship becomes extinct during my absence, just send for me, and I'll shed a few tears, and everything will go off in fashionable style."
And, laughing at Mrs. Gower's scandalized face, Gipsy leaped on her horse and rode off.
As she ascended the hills behind Mount Sunset she beheld, opposite to her, a horseman with his back toward her, standing silent and motionless, gazing upon Sunset Hall.
"I wonder who he is?" thought Gipsy. "A handsome fellow, I should say, for his form is superb. Wonder if he knows he's standing on my favorite point of view? Well, as I've no notion of surrendering my rights to him or any one else, I'll just give him a hint to get out of that." And, suiting the action to the words, Gipsy shouted, as she reined up her horse: "Hallo, sir!"
The horseman was still gazing like one entranced. He evidently did not hear her.
"I say, sir!" again called Gipsy.
Still no answer.
"Well, whoever you are," soliloquized Gipsy, "you're mighty polite to refuse answering a lady. I'll try again. Look here, sirrah, will you?"
He did not move.
"Well, 'pon my honor, that's decidedly cool!" saidGipsy. "So you won't pretend to notice me, eh? Very well, sir; we'll see whether you'll pay more attention to a lady than this."
And Gipsy drew a pistol from her belt, took deliberate aim, and fired.
It was well she doubted not her own skill; it was well she had a steady hand and eye; for the bullet passed through the crown of his hat, scarcely two inches above the temple.
With an exclamation of surprise and anger, the stranger turned round, and likewise drew a pistol. His eye wandered over the scene; but he could see no one but a young girl, who was coolly reloading her pistol, as if about to send a second ball in the same direction.
"Good-morning, madam. Did you see any one fire just now," said the stranger, in a most musical voice, as he rode toward her.
"Yes, sir,Ifired it," replied Gipsy, impudently.
"Youdid!" said the stranger, with a stare of surprise; "and may I ask, madam, if it was your intention to shoot me?"
"Of course it was! My aim was unfortunately taken a little too high. If you'll just stand there again, I'll try another shot," replied Gipsy gravely.
Again the stranger stared, as though doubting the sanity of his companion. There was no idiocy, however, in the bright, keen eyes, twinkling with suppressed mirth, that were now lifted to his; and, taking off his hat, the stranger pointed to the hole, saying:
"On the whole, I think I have no particular fancy for being made a target of—especially for so good a shot as you. May I ask the name of the fair amazon I have been fortunate enough to meet?"
"You must be a stranger here not to know it. I haveseveral names; the last and least of which is—Mrs. Wiseman. And yours?"
"Louis Oranmore, very much at your service," he answered, with a courtly bow.
"Oh!" Such a stare as he got from those bright eyes—such a quick flush of delight as overspread the pretty face beneath him—such a keen scrutiny as his face underwent at that moment. He noticed it, without pretending to do so; but there was an ill-repressed smile of amusement hovering about his finely-chiseled lip. Yet it was evident he did not recognize her.
The handsome, impetuous boy had grown into a tall, elegant, princely-looking man. His complexion, darkened by foreign suns to a clear, manly olive, was shaded by a profusion of jet-black curling hair. His fine dark eyes were bright, clear, almost piercing; his upper lip was shaded by a black mustache, but it did not conceal its scornful upward curve. Pride and passion, genius and unbending will were written in every lineament of that irresistibly handsome face; yet there was at times a winning softness in it, particularly when he smiled. He still bore a strong likeness to his dead father, save that Louis was much handsomer. There was something grand and noble in his tall yet slight figure, mingled with an ease and grace of manner that bespoke his acquaintance with polished society. His voice, that could at times ring with the clarion tones of command, never addressed a woman without being modulated to the softest and most musical of sounds. Such had our old favorite Louis become—very little like the Louis we once knew, we must own—very little like the guileless, innocent Louis, this gay young man of pleasure.
Perhaps something of all this was floating through the mind of Gipsy; for in spite of the admiration thatshone in her now radiant face, she finished her scrutiny with a sigh.
"Well, fair lady, do you find me so very hideous that you thus turn away?" he asked, fixing his deep, dark eyes in evident amusement on her face.
Gipsy would have blushed had she known how; but it was something she knew very little about, so she merely answered:
"Well, I think I have seen persons almost as frightful looking as you before. You are a stranger here, I presume?"
"Yes; though this is my native village, yet I have been absent for many years in Europe. May I ask if you are acquainted with the inmates of Sunset Hall yonder?"
"Yes; I've seen them."
"Are they all well?"
"Why, yes, I believe so; all but Spi—I mean Dr. Wiseman."
"Dr. Wiseman! What has he to do there?—he does not belong to the family."
"Yes, he does."
"What?"
"He married a ward of Squire Erliston's—Gipsy—something, I think they called her. Gow—Gow—Gower, I believe, was the name—and then, with his daughter, came there to live."
"Why, is it possible? Has little Gipsy Gower married that old man—old enough to be her grandfather?" exclaimed Louis, in unbounded amazement.
"Yes."
"Well, after that, nothing will surprise me. And Archie never mentioned a word of it," said Louis, in a sort of soliloquy; "and my—and Mrs. Oranmore, how is she?"
"Pretty well. She has not been very strong lately."
"Poor mother! And the squire?"
"Is quite well."
"You reside in St. Mark's, I presume?"
"Why, yes. Nonsense, Louis! Don't you know me?"
"Hallo! No, it's not; yes, it is, though; it's Gipsy Gower, is it not?" cried Louis.
"No, sir. Mrs. Nicholas Wiseman, if you please," said Gipsy, drawing herself up.
"My dear little Gipsy, I am delighted to meet you again. How handsome you have grown! Allow me to embrace my little playmate?"
Accepting his salute with saucy cordiality, Gipsy turned her horse's head in the direction of the Hall.
"Tell me now, Louis, what brings you home so suddenly?" asked Gipsy.
"Why, to confess the truth, I grew tired of sight-seeing, and began to feel homesick for the old, familiar faces; so, wishing to surprise you all, I started without sending you word, and here I am. But, Gipsy, whatever possessed you to marry that old man?"
"Love, of course. People always marry for love, you know."
"Pshaw! Gipsy, I know better than that. Why did you jilt poor Archie? I met him in Paris, half crazy, one would imagine. He answered my questions rationally enough, until we came to speak of you, when he burst forth into a torrent of invectives against flirts and deceivers in general, and then seized his hat and fled from the room, leaving me to conjecture as best I might his meaning. Come, Gipsy, own up, are you not the cause of all this frenzy?"
Gipsy's face had grown very pale; her eyes were benton the ground, her lips firmly compressed, as she answered, in a low, hurried voice:
"Louis, don't talk to me on this subject. I am wicked and wretched enough the best of times, but I always feel like a perfect fiend when this subject is mentioned. Suffice it for you to know that fate had decreed I should wed Dr. Wiseman; no earthly power could have prevented it, therefore I became his wife."
"Did they dare to force you?" exclaimed Louis, with a kindling eye. "If so——"
"No, no, Louis; I could have refused if I would. Don't mention this subject more. See, there is the old hall; and there at the gate stands Minnette Wiseman,mydaughter now, you know. Is she not a beautiful girl?"
"Beautiful indeed!" exclaimed Louis, enthusiastically, pausing involuntarily to gaze upon her.
Splendid indeed looked Minnette. Her dress of black (she always wore black) fluttering in the morning breeze, and confined at the slender waist by a dark crimson belt. Her long, shiny blue-black hair was twined in classic braids around her superb head. Her glorious black eyes were fixed on the glancing waters of the bay, and no June rose ever bloomed a more brilliant crimson than the hue of her cheek. She might have been an Eastern queen—for her beauty was truly regal, with her dark, oriental face, and splendid Syrian eye; but there was too much fire and passion in her nature, and too few womanly traits and feelings.
"Oh, Minnette, guess who's come!" cried Gipsy, riding up to where she stood.
"Who?" said Minnette, breathlessly, as her eye fell on Louis.
The next moment she started convulsively; the blood rushed in torrents to her brow.Shehad recognized him, though Gipsy had not.
"It's Louis," said Gipsy—"Louis Oranmore! Come, Louis! come! Miss Minnette. I am going up to the house to tell them you have come."
She was off like a flash, up the lawn, and in the house, while Louis leaped from his horse, and with courtly grace raised Minnette's hand to his lips; while she, pressing her hand to her heart, that beat and throbbed as though it would force its way to him, strove to return his salutation. It was a strange thing to see the cold, marble-like Minnette so moved.
"How everything has changed since I left home!" said Louis; "the place itself seems changed, and you more than all. I left you a little girl, thoughtful beyond your years, and I return to find you——"
"The most beautiful woman my eyes ever rested on," he would have said, but she raised her head, and something in the expression of her face checked him.
No marble ever was whiter or more cold, as she said:
"Yes, all has changed, and none more so than your formerfavorite, Celeste."
"Ah! little Celeste—how is she? I had forgotten to ask for her. I trust she is well?"
"I presume so. I know nothing to the contrary."
"I remember her a lovely child; I suppose she is an equally lovely girl?" said Louis, carelessly.
A scorching, scathing glance shot from the lightning eyes of Minnette; but, without answering him, she turned away, and walked steadily into the house.
"Strange, incomprehensible girl!" said Louis, looking in surprise after her. "How that flashing glance reminds me of the Minnette of other days! Have I said anything to offend her, I wonder? Heigho! what a radiant creature she is, to be sure! What would not some of the gay court beauties I know give for that superb form and glorious face! Well, I must not fall in lovewith her, however, if I can help it. Here comes that airy little mountain sprite, Gipsy! and now for my lady mother!"
"Come, Louis, come!" she cried, darting in again.
Louis followed her as she led the way to his mother's chamber. Then opening the door, she ushered him in, and closing it after her, immediately retreated.
Lizzie sat in an easy-chair, a crimson shawl wrapped around her, her eyes bright, her pale cheeks flushed with expectation. She arose at his entrance, and the next moment was clasped in his arms, while their mutual exclamations were:
"My dear Louis!"
"My dearest mother!"
There was a moment's silence; then Lizzie raised her head and surveyed him from head to foot, her face sparkling with pride and admiration.
"How tall you have grown! and how handsome you are!—handsome enough for a king, I think, Louis!" she said, delightedly.
"Are kings handsomer than other people, my dear mother?" he said, with a smile.
"Why, I suppose so; I never saw one. You are the very image of your poor dead father, too! Dear me! what an age it seems since we parted last!" said Lizzie, sinking back in her seat, with a sigh.
"I am sorry to find you so ill, mother," said Louis, gazing sadly into her thin, pale face, from which the bright glow was fast fading.
"Oh, I am always worse in the spring than at any other time. In a month or two I will be quite a different-looking individual," said Lizzie, hopefully.
An hour passed away, and then there came a tap at the door. Louis arose and opened it, and beheld Gipsy.
"Well, Louis, if you're done talking to your mother,you'd better come down and see Guardy. He's just woke up, but he doesn't know yet you've come," said Gipsy.
Louis went down stairs, taking half the staircase at a bound in his haste. Pushing open the parlor door, he unceremoniously entered the presence of the squire, who, after his old habit, lay in a lounging chair, with his feet stretched upon another, smoking his pipe with the benign air of a man at peace with himself and the rest of mankind.
At the abrupt entrance of Louis he looked up with a start, and muttered something suspiciously like an oath at seeing a tall, dark foreigner—as he supposed him to be—standing before him.
"Eh? who the deuce—I beg your pardon, sir, sit down," said the squire, staring with all his eyes.
"Do you not know me, my dear grandfather?" said Louis, advancing with extended hand.
"Why! Lord bless me, if it is not Louis Oranmore," said the squire, jumping up, "with as much hair on his face as a chimpanzee monkey has on its body. Bless my heart! thisisa surprise! When did you get home? Eh, when did you come?"
"About an hour ago, sir."
"And you're Louis? Well, well! Why, you weren't as high as that when you left," holding his hand about three inches from the ground, "and here you come back as tall as a lamp-post, with mustache enough for a shoe-brush, and dressed like a Spanish grandee. 'All's vanity,' as Solomon says. Well, and how did you get on with those old humbugs you went off to see—eh?"
"What old humbugs, sir?"
"Pooh! you know very well—the old masters."
"Oh! I flatter myself I have seen them to some purpose," said Louis, laughing; "but, to change the subject,I perceive you have made a few changes in the domestic economy of Sunset Hall during my absence."
"Why, yes, my boy; a few, a few! Gipsy's married to the old doctor, and didn't want to, either; but we coaxed her round and took her while she was 'in the humor,' as Solomon says."
"I trust, sir, Gipsy was notcompelledto marry this old man?" said Louis, with a darkening brow.
"Pooh! pshaw! of course not! Married him of her own free will—just like Gipsy, always doing what nobody would expect; 'women are like mules,' as Solomon says—want them to go one way, and they'll be sure to go t'other," said the squire, uneasily, evidently anxious to change the subject. "Have you seen old Wiseman and his daughter since your return?"
"I have not seen the doctor, but his daughter I have. She is a most beautiful girl," replied Louis.
"Bah! 'All that glitters is not gold,' as Solomon says. She's a proud, sullen, conceited minx,that'swhat she is—never liked her. And mind, my young jackanapes, you mustn't go and fall in love with her. You must look out for an heiress; not a girl like her, without a cent to bless herself with."
"I thought the doctor was rich," said Louis.
"So he is; but stingy—infernally stingy! Won't give her a copper till his death!"
"Well, sir, I have no present intention of falling in love with her or any one else; but if I had, Minnette Wiseman would be just the girl for me. She is handsome, refined, intellectual, as any one can tell from her conversation. What more would a man have?"
"Stuff! moonshine! 'Fine words butter no parsnips,' as Solomon says. She wants thegilt—the money, my boy. Love in a cottage sounds very fine, but come to real life and see what it is. No, sir; I will never hearto your marrying a poor girl—never! The heir of Erliston and Oranmore must find an heiress for a wife. No matter about love, you know; money's the thing. 'When poverty comes in at the door love flies out of the window,' as Solomon says."
"Oh, her smile it seemed half holy,As if drawn from thoughts more fairThan our common jestings are;And if any painter drew her,He would paint her, unaware,With a halo round her hair."
"Oh, her smile it seemed half holy,As if drawn from thoughts more fairThan our common jestings are;And if any painter drew her,He would paint her, unaware,With a halo round her hair."
"Oh, her smile it seemed half holy,As if drawn from thoughts more fairThan our common jestings are;And if any painter drew her,He would paint her, unaware,With a halo round her hair."
E. B. Browning.
Aweek had passed away at Mount Sunset Hall since the arrival of Louis.
week had passed away at Mount Sunset Hall since the arrival of Louis.
It had been a week of unremitting storm. Rain, rain, rain, from morning till night, and from night to morning, without ceasing.
No one could go abroad in such weather; so the arrival of Louis remained a secret in the neighborhood. It is true, Gipsy, who feared storm no more than sunshine, would have ridden forth, but preparations were being made for a grand party at the mansion, in honor of Louis' arrival, and she was forced to stay at home to assist. The whole household, with the exception of Louis and Minnette, were pressed into the business. Even Lizzie sat in the dining-room and stoned raisins, and sorted fruit, and pickles, and preserves, and lookedover dresses, and laces, and muslins, and flowers, with unabated zeal. Gipsy might have been seen flying about in calico long-shorts from morning till night, entering heart and soul into the excitement. Jupiter and Mrs. Gower were sent to the city for "things," and the squire was continually blowing and blustering about, and over-seeing all in general.
Minnette was too indolent to have anything to do with it, and so was left to herself—and Louis. That young gentleman, seeing how busy all were, gravely offered his services in the kitchen, saying, with the assistance of Totty, he had no doubt but he would learn how to wash dishes and make himself useful in time. His offer, however, like the manuscripts often sent to publishers, was "respectfully declined," and he and Minnette being thus thrown together, became, during the week of the storm, the best of friends—perhaps something more.
Their mornings were usually spent in the library, she embroidering while he read aloud poetry—dangerous occupation for a young and handsome man. Then he had such long stories and anecdotes to tell her, of his travels, of his "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field;" and itdidflatter his vanity a little to see the work drop unnoticed from her hand, her cheek flush or pale, her breath come quick and short at his words. Their afternoons were mostly devoted to music; she seated at the piano playing and singing his favorite songs, chiefly old Scotch and German love ditties, which he liked better than Italian songs or opera music, in spite of his usually fashionable taste. And Minnette—wild, passionate girl that she was—who can tell the tumultuous thoughts that set her heart throbbing so fast, or brought so vivid a crimson to her blooming cheek, as he bent over her, entranced—his dark, glossy locks mingling with hers? Perhaps he did not exactly makelove to her, but he was too thorough a man of the world not to perceive that she loved him, as only one of her fiery, passionate nature can love. The proud, haughty girl, who had all her life been a marble statue to others, was gentle and timid as a child before him. And he—I cannot excuse him—but though he loved her not he liked this devoted homage, this fiery heart he had tamed and won; and by his manner, almost unconsciously, led her to believe her love was returned. For the first time in her life, she was supremely happy, yielding herself, without restraint, to the intoxicating spell of his eye and voice.
Gipsy's keen eyes saw all this, too—saw it with regret and apprehension, and with instinctive dread.
"Minnette's marble heart had been changed to quivering flesh at last," was her soliloquy. "Sheloveshim, and (it is the old story) helikesher. Heaven forbid he should trifle with her! for woe to you, Louis Oranmore, if the unchained force of Minnette's lion-passions is aroused. Better for you you had never been born, than that the mad love of her tiger heart should turn to still madder hate. She can never make him or any one else happy; she is too fierce, too jealous, too exacting. I wish she had never come here. I will ride over to-night or to-morrow, and bring Celeste here; when he seesher, I know he can never love Minnette. It may not be too late yet to remedy the evil. The love of Celeste would ennoble him—raise him above the earth, that of Minnette will drag him down, down, to darkness and doom. I must prevent it."
Too late! too late! Gipsy. The evil has been done that can never be remedied. The "marble-heart" is awakened from its long repose at last.
The cards of invitation had been sent out for miles around. Early in the evening of the day appointedGipsy ordered the carriage and drove to Valley Cottage. Miss Hagar, gray, grim, and unchanged, stiff and upright as ever, sat (as usual) knitting in the chimney-corner. A perfect bower of neatness was that little cottage—outside almost hidden in its wealth of vines and leaves—inside, bright with cleanliness, and odoriferous with the perfume of flowers that came drifting in through the white draped windows and open door. And there, sitting by the window in her neat-fitting muslin dress, bright, sunshiny, and smiling, sat sweet Celeste, the "Star of the Valley," celebrated for her beauty for miles around.
"Ah, Miss Hagar! how d'ye do? Pleasant day," said Gipsy, flashing in after her old fashion. "Celeste, throw down that sewing, and come right off to the Hall with me; I want you."
"Oh! really, my dear Gipsy, you must excuse me," smiled Celeste; "I am making this dress for poor old Widow Mayer, and must finish it to-night. So I cannot possibly go."
"Now, that's just like you, Celeste—always sewing, or sitting up, or writing letters, or reading the Testament to some poor old unfortunate, instead of taking any pleasure for yourself. I declare you ought to be a Sister of Charity, at once! But you sha'n't work yourself to death for any one; so come along. I'll send the old lady over, to-morrow, every dress I have, sooner than want you to-night."
"But Miss Hagar, Gipsy; it is not right for me to leave her alone. She is so lonesome without me."
"No, she's not. You're glad to get rid of her; ain't you, Miss Hagar?"
"I should be pleased to have her go. It is right she should enjoy herself with the rest of the young folks," said Miss Hagar.
"There! you hear that? Now you go and get ready!"
"But really, dear Gipsy——"
"Now, none of your 'dear Gipsy-ing' me! I won't listen to another word! Youmustcome; that's the whole of it," said Gipsy, seizing the work, and throwing it into a corner, and pulling the laughing Celeste by main force from the room.
"But, Gipsy, why are you so anxious for me to go with you to-night?" said Celeste, when they had reached her chamber.
"Oh, because I have myraysonsfor it," as little Pat Flynn says. "Now I want you to look your very prettiest to-night, Celeste. In fact, you must be perfectly irresistible."
"I am afraid you are going to play me some trick, Gipsy!" said Celeste, smiling and hesitating.
"Oh! honor bright! Come, hurry up! Put on your white muslin; you look better in it than anything else."
"Besides being the best dress I have," said Celeste, as she took it down, for the cottage maiden always dressed with the utmost plainness and simplicity.
"I'll run out and gather you some rosebuds for your hair," said Gipsy, as Celeste began to dress.
"But, indeed, Gipsy, I am not accustomed to be so gayly attired," said Celeste, anxiously.
"Nonsense! what is there gay in a few white rosebuds, I'd like to know? Youshallwear them," said Gipsy, hurrying from the room.
Half an hour later and Celeste's toilet was complete. Very lovely she looked in her simple white robe, fastened at her slender waist by a blue ribbon, her shining hair of pale gold falling like a shower of sunlight over her beautifully white and rounded neck, and wreathed with moss roses. Her fair, rose-tinted face, with its deep,blue eyes, shaded by long, sunny lashes; her red, smiling lips; her softly flushed cheeks, and broad, transparent forehead, bright with youth, and goodness, and loveliness!
"Why, Celeste, you are radiant to-night—lovely, bewitching, angelic!" exclaimed Gipsy, gazing upon her in sort of rapture.
"Nonsense, dear Gipsy!" said Celeste, smiling, and blushing even at the words of the little hoyden. "Are you, too, becoming a flatterer?"
"Not I; I would scorn to be! You know I never flatter, Celeste; but you seem to have received a baptism of living beauty to-night."
Celeste very well knew Gipsy never flattered. Candor was a part of the elf's nature; so, blushing still more, she threw a light shawl over her shoulders, and entered the sitting-room. Both girls took leave of Miss Hagar, and entered the carriage, that whirled them rapidly in the direction of Mount Sunset.
"Gipsy, I know you have some design in all this?" said Celeste, as they drove along.
"Well; suppose I have?"
"Why, I shall be tempted to take it very hard indeed. Why have you brought me here, Gipsy?"
"Well, to meet a friend. There now!"
"Who is it?"
"Sha'n't tell you yet. Here we are at home."
Celeste glanced from the window, and saw the court-yard full of carriages, the hall illuminated, and throngs of people pouring in.
"Is it possible, Gipsy, this is a large party?"
"Yes; just so, my dear."
"Oh, Gipsy! it was too bad of you to entrap me in this way!" said Celeste, reproachfully.
"Fiddle! it's a great thing to go to a party, ain't it?Come, jump out, and come up to my dressing-room; I have a still greater surprise in store for you."
Celeste passed, with Gipsy, through a side door, and both ran, unobserved, up to her room. Then—after an hour or so, which it took Gipsy to dress, both descended to the saloon, where the dancing was already at its height.
Their entrance into the crowded rooms produced a decided sensation. Gipsy, blazing with jewels, moved along like a spirit of light, and Celeste, in her fair, moonlight beauty, looking like some stray angel newly dropped in their midst.
Gipsy led her guest to the upper end of the room, under a raised arch of flowers that filled the air with fragrance.
"Stay here until I come back for you," she whispered, as she turned, and disappeared among the throng.
Flitting hither and thither like a sunbeam, she paused until she discovered Louis, with Minnette leaning on his arm, calling up the smiles and blushes to her face at his all-powerful will.
"Louis! Louis! come with me! I want you a moment. You'll excuse him, Minnette, will you not?" said Gipsy.
"Oh, certainly!" said Minnette, with a radiant look, little dreaming for what purpose he was taken from her.
Passing her arm through his, Gipsy led him to where he could obtain a full view of Celeste, without being seen by her.
"Look!" she said, pointing.
He looked, started suddenly, and then stood like one transfixed, with his eyes riveted to the glorious vision before him.
She stood under the flowery canopy, robed in white, crowned with roses, leaning against a marble statue ofHebe, herself a thousand times lovelier than that exquisitely sculptured form and face. This was his ideal, found at last—this the face and figure that had haunted his dreams all his life, but had never been found before; just such an angelic creature he had striven all his life to produce on canvas, and always failed. He stood motionless, enchanted, drinking in to intoxication the bewildering draught of her beauty.
"Louis," said Gipsy, laying her hand on his arm.
He heard not, answered not; he stood gazing like one chained to the spot.
"Louis," she said in a louder tone.
Still she was unheeded,
"Louis, you provoking wretch!" she said, giving him a shake.
"Well?" he said, without removing his dazzled eyes from the vision before him.
"What do you think of her? Is she not lovely?"
"Lovely!" he repeated, rousing himself from the trance into which he had fallen. "Gipsy, she isdivine. Do not praise her beauty; no words can do it justice."
"Whew!—caught already! There's love at first sight for you."
"Gipsy, who is she—that vision of light—my life-dream—that I have found at last?"
"Then you don't know her? Bless your dear, innocent heart! that's Celeste—your 'Star of the Valley,' you know!"
"Yes, yes! I recognize her now—my Star of the Valley, rightly named. Would sheweremine!" he added, in a lower tone.
"Shall I present you?"
"Does she know I am here?"
"No; I didn't tell her a word about it."
"Then leave me. I will present myself."
"All right; that'll save me some trouble; and I hear somebody over there singing out for Mrs. Wiseman. Soau revoir, and Cupid be with you!"
And, laughingly, Gipsy glided away, and Louis went up and stood before Celeste.
She looked up with a start, to find the handsomest man she had ever seen in her life standing before her, gazing upon her with such a look of intense admiration in his deep, dark eyes, that the blood rushed to her cheek, and the white lids dropped over the shrinking blue eyes. Another moment, and both her hands were clasped in his; while he cried, in a voice that was low, but full of passion:
"Celeste! Celeste! little sister!—do you not know me?"
"Louis!" broke from her lips, in a wild exclamation of joy.
"Yes, sweet sister, your boy-friend, Louis, home again."
"Oh, Louis, I amsoglad!" she said, lifting her cloudless blue eyes to his, radiant with delight.
"Then you have not forgotten me? I feared you had," he said, bending over her, and holding fast the little hand that lay imprisoned in his.
"Forget you!—oh, no," she said, her heart fluttering wildly that moment against a little golden cross—hisparting gift, which had lain on her bosom all those years.
There was a look of eager delight on his face at her words. She saw it, and grew embarrassed. Withdrawing her hand from his, she said, in a more composed voice:
"When did you arrive?"
"About a week ago. I would have gone to see you,but the weather was so disagreeable," he replied, with a pang of regret and remorse for his neglect.
"Yes, so it was," said Celeste, sincerely; for, having no morbid self-love to be wounded, his excuse seemed the most natural thing in the world.
"And how is my old friend, Miss Hagar?" he asked, drawing her arm within his, and leading her toward the conservatory, now almost deserted.
"Oh, quite well. She will be delighted to see you."
"May I go and see her to-morrow, sweet Celeste?"
"Certainly you may. We willbothbe very glad to see you," answered Celeste, delightedly.
"She is certainly a paragon of simplicity. No woman of the world would say that," thought Louis, as he glanced at her eager, happy face.
An exclamation from Celeste attracted his attention. He looked up. Right before him stood Minnette, with her glittering black eyes fixed upon them with a look so fierce, so flamingly jealous, that he started back.
"Why, Minnette, what is the matter? Are you ill?" asked Celeste, in alarm.
She would have turned away without answering; but the dark eye of Louis was upon her, and she replied, coldly:
"I am perfectly well. Excuse me; I fear I have interrupted a pleasanttete-a-tete."
And, with one fierce, scorching glance at Celeste, she turned, and hurried away.
Celeste shuddered; something in the dark, passionate face of Minnette frightened her. Her companion perceived it—well he understood the cause; and with matchless tact he drew her mind from the subject to fix it on himself.
During the evening he devoted himself assiduously to Celeste. With her he danced; on his arm she leanedin the promenade; by his side she sat at table. Standing alone and neglected by herself, Minnette saw it all; and, had looks power to kill, those flaming glances of fire would have stricken her rival dead.
It was near morning when the party broke up. Celeste—who always shared Gipsy's room when at the Hall—sought her couch, and soon closed her weary blue eyes in blissful slumbers.
That night, in the dreams of Louis, the dark, resplendent face of Minnette was forgotten for a white-robed vision with a haunting pair of blue eyes. And Minnette—in the calm light of the stars, she trod up and down her apartment until morning broke over the hill-tops, with a wild anguish at her heart she had never before known.