53CHAPTER VIII.CRUEL CRISP.
It was near the middle of September that Mr. Platts and his family returned home. Mary was there to receive them, and very glad to see them.
It happened one day that Mary, having an unusual amount of work on hand, had requested Zula to go on an errand for her, to which she, ever ready to oblige, at once consented. It was nearing twilight and as Zula started to return home she was met by Crisp, who at once recognized her in spite of her changed countenance and neat attire.
“Oh, so I have found you. I have looked all over for you,” he said. “Maam wants to see you awful bad; she is so sick and she knows she is going to die; she says she must see you.”
“Is she really ill?”
“Yes,” Crisp answered, trying to look sad.
“I am sorry,” Zula said.
“Come and see her, then.”
“Oh, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can; you would if you knew how Maam cried after you.”
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“Then what made her let you whip me so?”
“She’s awful sorry, and she says if you will just come home and let her see you once she could die better.”
“Crisp, is it true that Maam is going to die?”
“As true as the stars shine, and she’s got something to tell you. I guess she’s got lots o’ money to give you, but anyway she wants to tell you something.”
“Well, you stay here then, Crisp, until I go home and tell my mother, and I will go if you will promise to come back with me, or let me come.”
“Why, yes, I will let you come, but you won’t have time to wait. You must come right away, or Maam might be dead when you got there.”
Poor Zula did not know what to do. She feared Crisp, and she could not bear the thought of going without Mrs. Platts’ consent, and then when she thought of poor Meg dying and longing to see her, her tender heart yielded, and she thought she must go to her. She would explain all to Mrs. Platts when she returned, and she knew she would forgive her.
“Crisp,” she said again, “are you speaking the truth?”
“Oh, dear, yes; do come, or we won’t see her again at all,” Crisp replied, in a troubled voice.
She looked again at Crisp’s ugly face, and then she thought of all the cruel blows he had given her. She knew that the road to the camp with him would be a dangerous one, but she thought of poor old Meg dying, and longing to see her, and if she had been cruel to her, she was her mother, and she would go if Crisp would promise to bring her back that night.
He gave a solemn promise to do so, and Zula walking55along hurriedly, by his side, wondered whether he had really told the truth, or was it all a fabrication of his own. Crisp questioned Zula as to where she had lived, and whether she had to work since she left them, and why she did not bring back the money she got for the beadwork, to which Zula replied that she could give them that amount now.
They reached the camp. All was still, for the gypsies were sleeping soundly.
“Come still,” said Crisp, gliding into one of the tents. “’Cause you might wake her.”
Zula followed softly, but no sooner had she entered the tent than she was seized by Crisp, and her hands bound tightly behind her. Old Meg arose from her straw bed, and, opening wide her eyes, looked in wonder at Zula, and as a grin of satisfaction passed over her face, she asked:
“Where did you find her?”
“On the street in Detroit, and I guess we will keep her this time.”
“It’s a wonder she did not get away.”
“Oh, I told her you was sick and going to die, so she came along.”
“You’re a good boy, Crisp, and you’ll get the money and she’ll get the lashes; yes, yes, she’ll get the lashes, the sinful jade, and you can give ’em to her, and lay ’em on good; tie her tight till to-morrow and then settle with her.”
Crisp did as his mother directed, and Zula knowing his strength made no resistance. Then he went to his straw bed and slept soundly, until morning. The sun56was well up when he went to Zula, and untying her hands led her out to a tree, where he bound her, saying:
“Now, you will find who is lady, or who is gypsy.”
He wound the lash that he had brought, around his brawny hand, and one by one the blows fell fast upon the quivering flesh. No word escaped her lips; but a slight groan followed every stroke of the whip. The little soft hands were locked tightly together and the face grew paler and paler, as the strokes left their marks deep and red.
“I’ll take the pride out of you, my young queen; you dare not run away again,” said Crisp, growing more and more angry, and giving vent to his demoniac ire in heavier strokes. As the lash sunk into the flesh a deeper paleness crept over Zula’s face, a heavy groan escaped her, and “Oh, Crisp,” was spoken in a tone full of agony.
Old Meg, who stood watching the proceedings, now advanced, and said:
“Stop, Crisp, not so hard; don’t you see you are killing her?”
Zula’s head sank upon her breast and an ashen paleness overspread her face.
“Yes, stop,” said a voice close behind him, and at that moment a form appeared among the trees.
“Who are you?” Crisp asked, angrily.
“It matters not who I am, but I command you to cease your cruelty, and untie that poor girl. Shame on a man who would commit such a cowardly deed. If you have a spark of manhood about you let her go.”
“What business have you to interfere, I should like57to know? She stays there till she knows how to behave herself.”
The stranger deliberately placed his hand behind him, and drawing a pistol from his pocket pointed it at Crisp, who instantly dropped his hand by his side, while his ugly face became purple with anger and fright, as he advanced a step toward Zula.
“I will give you just three minutes to release that girl, and if you do not do as I bid you your worthless head shall pay the forfeit. You have already intended murder, and had you been allowed to proceed, would have ended her life.”
Crisp began the work of untying the ropes which bound Zula, whose head lay upon her breast as motionless as though death had done its work.
When the cords were loosened, the young man bade Crisp carry her to her bed, which he did, while the stranger followed him. Old Meg brought a basin of water and bathed her face.
“Is she your daughter?” the stranger asked, addressing old Meg.
“Yes,” she replied.
“How, then, can you treat her so cruelly?”
“She runs away, and we have to whip her hard,” she said, glancing at Crisp, who stood like a cowering criminal, gazing on the ruin he had wrought.
“You whipped her too hard, Crisp,” said Meg, who still seemed to have a spot of pity left in her heart.
Crisp could find nothing to say in self-defense, so remained silent, but the stranger noticed the look of intense hatred on his ugly face, as he gazed at the seemingly58lifeless form before him. Zula breathed heavily, then slowly opened her eyes. They rested for a moment on the face of the young man, then with a sudden start and a flood of tears she turned and covered her face with her hands.
“Poor girl!” said the young man. “I am so sorry for you.”
She tried to arise, but was too much exhausted. The pain inflicted by the terrible blows had nearly taken her life, and she sank back, again, white and trembling.
“Oh, I am so ill,” she moaned.
“Go for some water, Crisp, and I will make her some herb tea,” said old Meg, and she followed Crisp from the tent.
The stranger took from his pocket a card, and handing it to Zula told her in case anything of the kind ever occurred again, to make him acquainted with the fact and he would come to her rescue.
“Can you read the address?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “I can read, and I thank you so much; perhaps some day, I can do something to repay you.”
She took a steady look at the card, then returned it to him, saying:
“Take it, I shall remember.”
“I am afraid you will forget.”
“No, I shall not forget, and it will be safer here,” she said, pointing to her forehead. “You know they can’t find it here.”
He made no reply, for Meg was just coming in with59a cup of tea, which she gave to Zula, who as she drank it, said:
“It is so bitter.”
“It will strengthen you,” said the old gypsy.
“Will it cure the cuts on my shoulder?” asked Zula.
“That is all nonsense.”
“Oh, I know it is cut; and here is one on my arm; I know by the way they smart.”
She raised the sleeve of her dress, and revealed a gash from which the blood had started.
“Then you must learn to be good. You don’t know,” she said, turning to the stranger, “what a bad little thief she is.”
“No matter what wrong she has done it does not justify the punishment you have given her.”
Zula’s eyes were turned full upon the face of the young man as though beseeching him not to believe her guilty.
“Will you have your fortune told?” asked Meg.
“For what? I came out to the woods to get fresh air and to practice a little shooting. I came very near using that young rascal there for a target. It is quite necessary to keep in practice, I see—but what do you know of my fortune?”
“I can tell you what you wish to know most.”
He laughed.
“See if I cannot.”
“Well,” he said, prompted by curiosity, “if you can tell me all that, proceed.”
She took his hand, as soft and white as a woman’s, and gazing at the palm, she said:
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“You are wealthy.”
“Indeed.”
“Your parents are both living.”
“Yes.”
“Your hands are never soiled with work.”
“I thought you were to tell me something which I did not know.”
“You will marry a beautiful woman.”
“Ah! well, that will be no satisfaction if she is not good.”
“She will be good and beautiful.”
“That is well.”
“But there are tears for you, and the stain of blood on your hands.”
The young man drew back, then laughed at his own folly.
“No,” he said, “there will never be the stain of blood on my hands. Tears are for us all, but crime is not for me.”
“We can’t change the fates.”
“We weave our own destiny, perhaps.”
“Others weave for us and we must take what comes.”
“I must go,” he said. “Is there any more fortune for me?”
“Yes, there is a great deal to tell.”
“I will come some other day and get the rest of it, I must go,” he said, placing a piece of money in her hand. “I suppose you get a great many silver pieces in this way.”
“Oh, yes,” she answered, placing the money in a well-filled beaded bag. “Yes, almost every afternoon the61young ladies and gentlemen from the city come here.”
“Well, I cannot see that I have learned anything,” said the young man, thinking that she had given him all that her wicked heart would allow, and that the criminal part was given through spite from his having interfered in the whipping of Zula. He went to the door of the tent and bade Zula good-bye, then wandered away through the woods.
“Oh, dear,” said Zula to herself, with eyes filling with tears; “why cannot I stay with some one who is kind to me? I wish I could get back home to dear Mr. and Mrs. Platts, and I will, too, some day. How kind they were to me. If I ever get a chance to hurt Crisp I’ll do it. I believe I’ll kill him.”
The thought had scarcely passed through Zula’s brain ere she shuddered at its coming.
“How terrible that would be,” she added. “Oh, I wish I could get away from him; I know if I do not I shall do something terribly wicked. If I could only get home again I could be good. I do not feel so wicked when I am with dear Mrs. Platts. I wonder why.”
It was not strange that Zula should feel a spirit of revenge while in the presence of Crisp and his mother.
The gypsy camp was arranged for a dance. Zula lay on her bed and ever and anon caught a glimpse of some gaily dressed gypsy, as they flitted by the tent door. A young girl entered the tent, and going to Zula, said:
“Meg sent me in to tell you to get up and come out; they want you to play the guitar.”
“I don’t want to play,” said Zula, in a half angry tone. “I am too lame to play or dance, and they would62not let me dance if I could, just because they know I would enjoy it more.”
“Well, I suppose you will have to come anyway, ’cause Meg said so, and so did Crisp.”
“Crispin,” and Zula’s eyes flashed a light like that of an angry tiger. “Crisp, I hate him bad enough to kill him.”
“I’m sorry for you, Zu,” said Fan, as she noticed the great red marks on Zula’s flesh. “I am so sorry, and if I was you I’d——”
“What would you do?”
“I’d run away, and join some other band,” said Fan, coming close and whispering the words in Zula’s ear.
“No, I don’t want to join any band. I don’t want to be a gypsy at all. Oh, I was so much happier when I was at home and had a nice clean bed, and everybody was so kind to me.”
“Well, that was nice, but you see, you had to work.”
“If I did, that was nothing.”
“Oh, no, but then we can lay in the shade all we like and have a nice time, and so we get something to eat and do what we please, what is the difference?”
Zula felt that there was a great difference, and, gypsy though she was, she felt that there was more happiness in having employment and kind friends than all the pleasures of a life of idleness.
“Come, Zu, hurry up, or you will get another flogging.”
“If I do it will not kill me, or, if it does I do not care. I wish it would; I’d rather be dead than live this way.”
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“It is too bad, I know, but I don’t see why they whip you that way. I never get such poundings.”
“Because you are good and mind what you are told,” said a harsh, croaking voice at the door.
Zula looked up, but there was neither love nor fear in the gaze that fell on her mother’s face. She had grown reckless as to fear, and so accustomed to the pain inflicted by the strokes of the lash, that had she been commanded to receive fifty, she would have betrayed no emotion.
“Come, you lazy thing, you may as well make yourself useful; you are good for nothing anyway, so you may help to make music for the dance.”
“I hate music—that kind, anyway. It’s like the croaking of a frog. I would rather dance if I wasn’t so lame and my arms so sore.”
“Come along, then; playing a while will cure you, I guess. You have got most too smart since you ran away and stole your livin’ from the white ladies.”
“I didn’t steal it; they gave it to me, and didn’t whip me either.”
“Then they didn’t give you what you deserved; but let me tell you, you’ll not get a chance to get away again very soon,” said the old gypsy, with a grin that made her fairly hideous.
Zula made no reply, but as she arose to her feet, scarcely able to stand at all, she was making a strong resolution in regard to a secret that a second party did not possess. Some day she would execute the plan which she had laid out, but she must work with the utmost caution. She was only a gypsy, which fact she64fully realized, but there was something away in the distant future that her heart cried out for, and she would reach out until she could grasp it, if she died in the attempt. She was a gypsy, and she knew she could never be a fine lady, but she might find a way out of this terrible darkness and find at least a break in the clouds, if not the broad open sunshine in which she thought many a one lived.
She had made a resolution to escape from Crisp, but how was it to be done? She had more than half made up her mind that could she get back to Mrs. Platts, she would tell her all about her mother, and all the trouble she had gone through, but in that case they would know she was a gypsy, and the thought caused a blush of shame to pass over her face.
When the dance was over she put away the guitar with painfully tired arms and an aching heart. When she saw Crisp, as he moved about, cast exultant glances at her, and saw her mother watching her every movement, then was her resolution formed, not to be changed, for let come what would, hardships, torture, or even death, nothing should change her purpose. She would escape, and as she sat quietly working with her beads, making many pretty articles for sale, her brain was working more briskly than her fingers, trying to devise a means of escape.
65CHAPTER IX.FREE AGAIN.
Zula had been a prisoner three weeks, all that time being closely watched by Crisp, and had it not been for the stolen visits she received from the young gypsy girl, Fan, she would have been desolate indeed. She entered the hut one day where Zula was imprisoned, and going close to her she whispered:
“Zula, they are going to drug you to-night, but now don’t you be scared, for I’ll manage to fix it myself. They don’t think I would play any trick, but I will, and you be sure not to say a word against taking it.”
“What is that for? What are they going to do?”
“They say you must be untied, or you will get lame, and not be able to travel, for we’ll move on in a week or two, and don’t you attempt to go out of the tent, for they are going to keep an eye on you to see if the herb works right.”
Zula sat a moment in deep thought ere she replied; then, looking closely in Fan’s eyes, and speaking in a voice so low that Fan could just distinguish her words, she asked:
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“Fan, will you trust me to ask you something and promise me not to tell a living soul?”
“Yes; I’ll promise.”
“You won’t betray me?”
“No.”
“True?”
“As sure as can be.”
“You must help me, Fan. I must get away.”
“Oh, I’ll be lonely without you, Zu.”
“But they’ll kill me yet, Fan, and if I can I must get away, and if you will only help me, I will do something for you if I can. Will you help me, Fan?”
“Yes, Zu, I will.”
“Well, then, to-morrow night, when they are all asleep, come as still as you can and untie the ropes, and I will escape.”
Fan gave the required promise and then left Zula, saying that if she stayed too long they might suspect something. Crisp and his mother were seated on the ground, apart from the rest. Fan strolled near several times, but could hear nothing of their conversation. That night, as Zula lay patiently waiting, Fan entered the tent, saying in a loud voice:
“Here, Zula, Crisp told me to bring you this tea; he says it will strengthen you.”
Zula took the tea, and, lying back on her bed of straw, was soon, to all appearance, fast asleep, but though her eyes were closed and her body motionless, her brain was still at work.
She had not lain there more than an hour ere she heard a pressure of the grass, and a smothered whisper67near by. She began to fear that the two were to commit some terrible deed, and her heart beat wildly, but she controlled every outward emotion, knowing that her only hope lay in apparent ignorance of their presence. Old Meg, holding a torch closer to her face, whispered:
“Yes, she is sound asleep; now for the search. I’m sure she has it.”
“Oh, yes, I’m pretty sure I saw her take it,” said Crisp.
Old Meg then proceeded to examine Zula’s clothing, but after a thorough search turned away in disgust.
Zula heard words which made her heart stand still, and her face grew pale; heard that which changed her resolutions and the current of her life. Three years ago it would have been impossible for her to lie there quietly and control the intermingling of anger and grief that swelled her heart; but she had learned from the teachings which she had received, as well as from experience, that no good comes of hasty passions, and calling into action all her powers of endurance, she lay as calm as a sleeping infant until Crisp and Meg left the tent.
All night she lay trying to devise means whereby she could make her escape, sleeping only at intervals. In the morning Meg entered to find what the effect of the drug had been. Zula, tired out from anxiety, had sunk into a heavy slumber. Old Meg, stooping down, looked steadily into her face, then left the tent. When the sun was going down that night she directed Crisp to see that Zula was securely tied, which work he was only too68eager to do. It was night. The gypsies were all sleeping soundly. A cloud had blinded the setting sun, which, continuing to spread until night came on, grew to an inky darkness. Now and then a tiny red line shot out from the blackened clouds, which were growing more and more dense, and a faint rumbling of the far away thunder could be heard. Midnight came, and Zula, with feverish anxiety, awaited the time for Fan to come and release her.
“Oh,” thought Zula, “what if Fan had fallen asleep, and forgotten all about her, or worse yet, what if she were playing a part and should tell Crisp her secret. He would have no mercy on her.” She grew nervous at the very thought. “Oh, what a risk she was running to undertake to gain her freedom. Oh, if Fan would only come.”
“Zula,” she heard whispered in the darkness.
“Oh, Fan, I am so glad you are here.”
“Hush! We must be quick, for the storm is coming on and it may wake some one.”
“God help me,” said Zula.
Fan proceeded quickly but quietly to untie the ropes which bound Zula’s hands, and it was no easy task, being in utter darkness, but the work was soon accomplished with the help of Fan’s teeth, and, taking Zula’s hand, they stealthily crept out into the black night.
“Good bye,” whispered Fan. “Now go; they might find out if I don’t go back. They all slept when I crawled from the tent. Now go, and may the good fairies go with you to protect you.”
“Fan, go with me.”
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“Oh, what would I do? I have no home nor any place. No, no, go.”
“Good bye—Now go!”
“Good bye—Now go!”
Zula pressed Fan’s hand and then she was left standing alone in the inky darkness, with all the great wide world around her. The woods, the grass, the wild flowers, even the broad, black sky above, none of which she could discern, seemed to speak to her of freedom, and whisper of a hope which she had thought forever lost. Standing there in the darkness under the sky, angry with a fast approaching storm, with the great raindrops falling about her and danger on every hand, she saw her castle again rising up in the darkness—saw again the glistening panes, the marble walls and sparkling fountain—saw the castle which would rise despite the darkness around her. She groped her way for some distance and suddenly came in contact with a huge oak tree which gave her head a fierce blow. She sank to the earth with a groan.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “what shall I do? Oh, my head, and I shall get soaking wet. I wonder what I shall do? I can’t stay here; it is too close by. I must get away, for even now they may have missed me. I don’t know where it will be, but I must find my way to somewhere. If I go to Mrs. Platts I must tell her all, and then she will know I am a gypsy, and I would rather die than have her know that.”
70CHAPTER X.SCOTT’S VALET.
Scott Wilmer sat in his office surrounded by books and papers, which were lying about on tables and desk in great disorder. His brow was clouded, and, leaning his head on his hand, he looked from one pile of papers to another, and taking up his pen he wrote:
“Wanted—Boy. A good steady boy to work in law office. Must be active and willing to work; neat in appearance and of good behavior.Scott Wilmer, 173 —— Street, Detroit.”
“Wanted—Boy. A good steady boy to work in law office. Must be active and willing to work; neat in appearance and of good behavior.Scott Wilmer, 173 —— Street, Detroit.”
The advertisement was inserted in the evening papers and the next morning a score or more of boys appeared. There was one among them who impressed Scott more than all the rest, and whom Scott requested to step into his office. He was a fine looking boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age, scrupulously neat in appearance and possessing a manner which quite captivated Scott.
“My name is Paul Leroy,” he said, as he gracefully71accepted the chair Scott offered. “I thought perhaps I might fill the place of errand boy, if you will only let me try, and if you did not like me——”
“That is always understood,” said Scott. “The duties which I wish you to perform are not at all arduous, and I think you can fill the place without trouble.
“Would you like a chance to study?”
“Indeed I would, sir.”
“Very well. I will give you eight dollars per week and allow you the privilege of attending evening school, and studying at home when you can. Are you satisfied with that?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Have you any recommendations?”
“No, sir; I have none, and I can only promise you that I will be honest and do my work as near right as I can.”
“Where in this city have you worked?”
“I have not been here long. My mother does not live here, and my father is dead.”
“You may stay; I think we shall manage very well; and if I find you capable we will make a permanent bargain. Come! I will show you to your room.”
Scott led the way across the hall, and opening the door of a room next to his own private one, he said:
“This will be your room. You see there is a door that opens into my room, so that in case I should need you at any time you can step in without going through the hall.”
“It is a very pretty little place,” Paul said, looking around.
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“You may wait in the library until the dinner hour. After dinner you may begin your work.”
June thought Paul looked rather pale, and wondered if he were not homesick. She really pitied him, she said to Scott, when she found her brother alone. Mrs. Wilmer gave him a half friendly welcome as he took his seat by Scott’s side at the table, but she did think Scott had a little more regard for caste than to allow his valet to eat at the table with the family. She thought it would be almost as reasonable to think of allowing one of her servant girls to sit with them. She did not dare to say a word of disapproval, for Scott said the boy was lonely, and he had taken such a fancy to him, too, and he would, no doubt, argue her out of all reason and do as he thought right.
The room which he occupied was a tastily furnished apartment, with a broad, low window facing the east. A tall maple tree stretching its branches out toward the window made a lovely shade, and by the window June hung her pretty mocking bird, Ned. For she said that Paul had no other company, and Ned would cheer him so much when he became homesick.
Paul began his work the next day with so much interest and activity that Scott concluded that if he continued as he had begun he had secured a prize. As time wore on Paul conducted himself with so much modesty and natural refinement that Mrs. Wilmer, with all her ideas of caste, could but admire him, and though she had cautioned June to ignore his society altogether, she now consented to allow her to sit in the library with him, always cautioning her not to forget73that he was her brother’s hired help, and in no way her equal. June always promised, but some way June always forgot. She did not mean to break her word, but there was a charm in the very atmosphere which surrounded Paul. Every moment that his services were not required for work was spent in useful and careful study. He took advantage of the evening school, and these hours were well improved.
The Wilmer library was a large, airy and beautifully furnished room, well filled with finely bound and instructive volumes. Scott was an extensive reader, and a great portion of his time was spent among his books. He had been studying law, and two years before the present time was admitted to the bar. His keen intellect and the remarkably sound judgment which he possessed for one of his years gave great promise of a brilliant future. His dignified bearing, without ostentation, his eloquence, to which none could listen without feeling the weight of its influence, his honor and strict morality, together with a generous nature, commanded admiration and respect from all. His face, though not strikingly handsome, was very attractive. His hair, a dark auburn, curled loosely around a broad, white brow. His hazel eyes and classical features were of the type that always caused one to take a second look, and the general comment was, “What a fine looking man.” Paul thought so, too, and he was much surprised when he discovered the generosity of his nature, and when told that he could have free access to the library it seemed too much of a treat to be true. He had so often longed for books of the kind which he found there, and he74tried to thank Scott, but that gentleman waved his hand in a way that thanks was entirely out of the question.
Paul and June were becoming firmer friends as the days wore on. They sat one day, several weeks after his arrival, in the library. June had entered and found Paul reading, and seeing the book he held in his hand, she said, as she took a seat near him:
“Oh, Paul, I should think you would just suit mama.”
“Why,” he asked.
“Because you are always reading poetry. I see you are reading ‘Lady of the Lake.’ Do you like it?”
“Like it? Indeed, I do; it is beautiful.”
“Well, I like poetry, but mama almost goes wild over it. She thinks anyone who can write poetry is wonderful. Mama is real funny; you’ll never tell anyone if I tell you in what way, will you?”
“No.”
“Well, you know mama often takes books to her room; she hardly ever comes here to read; she likes to be by herself, and I will tell you why. She would like to be a poet herself, and if you liked to write it as well as you like to read it, she would think you were just splendid.”
“I cannot write poetry; I wish I could.”
“Why don’t you try?”
“How can I when I do not know anything about it?”
“Oh, just make up something that rhymes.”
“I would not want to make poetry just for the sake of a rhyme; I would want some beauty in it—some—well, some soul. But is that what you were going to tell me?”
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“Oh, no, I was going to tell you about Scott’s wife.”
“I did not know he had a wife.”
“Oh, he hasn’t any now, but Irene Mapleton is to be his wife some day. I do not know just when, but you should see the poetry she writes. Why, she has just stacks of it. Mama thinks it is just beautiful, but Scott says he cannot see any beauty in it. I believe you could write as well as that yourself. Mama used to write poetry, and she wrote a whole lot of it, and tried to sell it for an awful price. The editor told her that he could not take it. She kept offering it for less and less, and finally, she offered it for nothing. He would not take it at all, and then told her it was worthless and would never do to print. Since then I do not believe she has ever tried to get her poems printed.”
“I should not think she would,” said Paul.
“Well,” said June, looking up and tossing her head, “I do not believe I should like to be a writer. I want to be free and not sit caged up like a bird. Why, mama knows a lady in New York who makes her living that way, and I have often seen her sitting by her window away up in the third story of her house, and there she sits, day after day, all alone. Mercy! I can’t see how she does stand it. It must be an awful life to live.
“I suppose one reason that mama is so determined to have Scott marry Irene is because she can write poetry. Mama is so delighted when she sees one of Irene’s poems that she shows it to everybody she knows. She is so afraid that Scott will not get Irene for a wife that she wants him to be married right away, but Scott says he has not the time to be married.”
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“How old are you, June?” Paul asked, looking up into her face.
“Thirteen last month.”
“How long have you attended school?”
“Oh, ever since I can remember. I shall graduate when I am seventeen. Mama has promised me the loveliest graduating dress that she can find in the city of New York.”
“What is all this argument about?” asked Scott, who at that moment entered the room.
“We were only talking about going to school and being wise, that is all,” said June.
“A very good subject for two little people,” said Scott, smiling.
Scott sat down by June’s side, as he said:
“I have come to tell you something, my little sister, which I hope you will be pleased to hear.”
Paul arose, and putting his book in its place started to leave the room.
“Where are you going?” Scott asked.
“I thought perhaps you wished to talk to your sister,” Paul answered, modestly.
“Your presence will not hinder me. I prefer to have you stay.”
Paul went to the window and stood with his face turned away from Scott’s gaze. He did not know why, but for some reason he feared that he should hear something unpleasant.
“June, I am going to be married,” Scott said, turning the bright face up to catch the effect of his words.
“Oh, Scott!”
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The head dropped upon his shoulder, and the tears started to her eyes.
“Why, what is the matter, little one, is there anything so terrible about that? I thought you might be pleased to hear it.”
“I am pleased, only——”
“Only what?”
“I am afraid you will not care for me—or Paul either, after you are married.”
Paul turned with a smile, though his face was very pale. He did not say to Scott that he dreaded far worse than did June, the presence of his wife, for it seemed to him that Scott would not care for him as he had, and though he could not tell just why, it seemed to him that he would not be as happy as he had been.
“Well, Paul,” said June, wiping the tears away, “if Scott cares less for us when he gets Irene, you and I will be brother and sister.”
“If you will,” said Paul.
“And I hope you will agree as well as you and I have, June,” Scott said.
“I hope you and Irene will agree as well as we shall—but,” she added, springing upon Scott’s knee, and throwing her plump little arms around his neck, “I intend to sit here while I can, for I do not suppose I shall be allowed to do so in future.”
Scott’s mouth closed firmly; then he said:
“June, no one shall ever come between me and my sister; remember that—not even a wife. I do not think Irene would wish to, and if she did she could not; so do not foster any such ideas. I could never love my little sister less.”
78CHAPTER XI.SCOTT’S WIFE.
The wedding was over. Scott had been to San Francisco and returned, bringing his bride, radiant in diamonds and rich apparel. She was a handsome dark-haired woman, with finely-cut features and an exquisitely molded form. Her tapering fingers fairly blazed with costly diamonds. The evening reception given at the Wilmer mansion was a brilliant affair, and everyone present admired Scott Wilmer’s wife, as she appeared in her rich pearl-colored satin dress and costly jewels. Mrs. Wilmer had welcomed them home the day before, highly pleased with the choice her son had made. June kissed her new sister in a loving way, and Mr. Wilmer gave her a quiet and kindly welcome. Scott inquired for Paul, and on investigation found him in the library with his head bowed on the broad window sill, the tears dropping from his eyes.
“Why, Paul, my boy,” said Scott, as he placed his hand on his head, “are you crying? What is that for?”
“For nothing,” Paul answered. “I am foolish, I know, but it seems to me as though I were all alone again. I have been so happy, and you have been so kind to me.”
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“I can still be kind, can’t I?” Scott asked, with a smile.
“Oh, sir,” said Paul, “I did not mean that you would not; but——”
“But what? Do you think Irene is a tyrant?”
“Oh, no, sir! Please do not think I dislike your—your—wife. I do not know.”
“Very well; dry your eyes and come to the parlor and let me introduce you.”
“Please, Mr. Wilmer, I would rather not.”
“You must; you will be obliged to meet her sooner or later, so come now.”
Paul arose, and wiping the tears away, followed Scott to the parlor, where he was presented to the bride. She received him with an air of hauteur, though not unkindly. Paul knew that she meant to make him feel his inferior position, but was by no means embarrassed. He bowed with such an easy grace that Irene wondered where the boy who acted in a menial capacity had received his instructions, he was so self-possessed in the presence of strangers. Though she felt the least bit annoyed that he did not feel intimidated in her presence, she could but admire his classical features and lovely eyes. She remarked to Scott some time later that there was something about the boy that she could not “quite understand.” Often she would look up to find his searching gaze fastened upon her, as though he would read her very thoughts, and, boy though he was, he was capable of making her very uncomfortable.
“I cannot think,” Irene said one day to Scott, “what80the boy can be thinking of sometimes, when he looks at me with those great dreamy eyes; and once, when I asked him what he was thinking of, he answered coolly, that he did not care to tell. Just to think of his answering me that way! I had a half mind to box his ears.”
“I hardly think that would be advisable,” Scott answered, closing his lips in a manner that told plainly that he meant what he said.
Irene soon began to learn Scott’s nature, and she saw that whatever opposition she made to his will must be done in secret; and though he was ever kind and gentle, she knew that he would adhere strictly to the right, whoever the opposing party might be. There had been a slight misunderstanding between Irene and Paul in the library—at least, that was what she called it. She entered one day and found Paul poring over a book of poems.
“Why, Paul,” she said, “you seem to spend a great deal of time here; you have permission, I suppose?”
The boy’s crimson lip curled scornfully.
“Certainly, I have; if I had not I should not be here.”
“Does your master pay you for studying?”
“My work is always done before I come here; for that I am paid, and my employer, not my master, has very kindly allowed me the privilege of using the library. As for a master, I am neither a dog nor a slave.”
“You are very insolent, at least.”