MISFORTUNES.
But to the immense relief of the girls, the gypsy at last consented,
most kindly, to accept the money, and after the cards had been "cut,"
proceeded to assort them, and read from their dirty faces Isabel's
future destiny. "Dark complect?" said she, looking up at Isa. "Yes,
yes, coal-black hair, or will be, and a pair of eyes! There's two
kinds of eyes in this world, little miss: one's the oily blank eye,
and the other's the snapping black eye. Yours is the snapping black
eye. 'Twill break the hearts, my dear--break the hearts," repeated
Mrs. Gypsy, approvingly. "Here you are, the queen of spades, the queen
of beauty, and behind you there I see trouble."
The gypsy scanned the cards closely.
"Ah, I know it all, now. It's a child, a girl, dead since way back.
Your sister: you were named for her."
The girls were dumb with surprise, and gazed at one another with
parted lips. They had all heard of "the other Isa," and had seen her
little head-stone in the graveyard.
"You have one brother," continued the gypsy; "light hair; name begins
with a T."
"Thomas," cried the girls in a breath.
"Where could she have heard of Tommy?" cried Grace.
"Where, to be sure, miss?" was the tart reply. "Never heard of him
till he looked up at me out of the cards."
By this time five pairs of eyes had grown very large, and five little
hearts were throbbing high with awe and curiosity. How could these
children know that the gypsy was acquainted with the history of her
landlord's family? How were they to imagine that she purposely told
Isa's fortune first in order to excite their wonder?
"I see here," said the gypsy, fumbling at the cards mysteriously, as
if she could pierce quite through them with her sharp eyes, "I see a
present for you: it's worth a power of money. I see a journey for you:
it's across the waters. Here is a great nobleman; and O, how rich! He
rolls in gold! He'll set great store by you, miss, and when you grow
up you'll marry him, and you'll roll in gold, too."
Isa smiled; and it is worthy of notice that she did not wonder at all
at this future husband, though, according to her promise to the Ruby
Seal Society, she could no more think of marrying than a veiled nun.
"Such a lady as you'll be. You know of girls now that are pretty
_thin_ with you. You wish yourself as rich and grand. But never mind.
The day'll come when they'll be glad of a smile from you."
The wicked woman continued this harangue for some time, painting in
gorgeous colors the splendor which was to shine upon the happy Isa one
of these days; while Isa sat listening to the romance in a tumult of
delight. "What girls were those who felt themselves better? That must
mean Grace Clifford, if anybody. She would come humbly to Isa
Harrington, begging for a smile. Cassy Hallock would then have sunk
into a nobody. O, how exquisite! Grace was cool and indifferent
now--was she? Ah, well! the tables were about to be turned, and then
maybe somebody else would know how to be cool and indifferent too."
"O, Isa," laughed Grace, "think of the lovely dresses you'll wear!
Please give me one, Isa. I hope you'll not forget your old friends."
The gypsy scowled, but was keen to take observations.
"I reckon I'll know who are my real friends better than some people
do," replied Isa, meaningly. "I'll have so many friends that I just
hope I'll not have to pick out the meanest of the whole to go with; I
just hope I'll not be such a stupid as that, and then feel cross when
anybody says she isn't perfect."
Grace smiled, and so did the other girls. It was plain that Isa was so
dazzled as to come very near fancying herself a great lady already.
The glances which passed between the girls did not escape the sharp
eyes of the gypsy.
"Ah, ha! I see how it is. Somebody jealous! I'll soon study it out."
Next came Diademia's turn, and she chose to have her fortune read by
the zigzag lines on the palm of her hand. The woman declared that
these lines were curved in just the right way on the little brown hand
of Diademia, who was therefore sure to live in peace and plenty, and
to receive a large legacy in five years. So it was with all. The gypsy
fairly buried them under heaps of gold and precious stones, till it
came to poor Grace Clifford. She bent her black brows, and looked upon
this last candidate with a frown, pausing some time before she spoke.
Grace did not understand this ominous scowl, but looked into the
woman's face with a bright smile of anticipation.
"I'd like my fortune told by astrology, please, madam. That's the
stars--isn't it?"
"First give me your hand, miss; not that--the left one, like the
others did. Alas!" sighed the artful woman, poring over the soft
little palm, "life-line short and crossed, matrimony-line and line of
riches cut clean off! I daresn't to lift the tempestuous veil of
fortune. Black, mighty black!"
Grace might have answered, "Very well, madam; then pray don't take the
trouble to do it, but give me back my 'six bits,' and I'll buy that
jelly for the soldiers." But Grace was by far too much interested; she
could not go away now without hearing her fortune, however dark it
might prove.
"Please go on, ma'am," said she, with a brave smile, though her heart
quaked for fear.
"What day and year was you born, miss?"
"September 3d, 1851."
"Then you are under the influence of the planet _Marcury_," said the
gypsy, after an intense study of the sky, during which she looked as
wise as an astronomer calculating an eclipse. "Marcury, sorry to say.
You have friends who have been--ahem!--who will go to the war." Here
the gypsy paused and gazed at the heavens again, lost in thought.
"She means your pa," whispered Lucy, "when you supposed he was dead,
and he wasn't."
"As I was saying, you have a very dear relation who was killed, or
almost killed, in the wars," continued the gypsy, starting up from her
reverie, and beginning where she had left off, without appearing to
pay the slightest attention to Lucy's whisper. "I had to study a while
to find out if he died; but the truth is, he's alive now--your father,
I mean."
If possible the girls were more amazed than ever. What didn't the
gypsy know? Wasn't it awful?
"Yes, at the time you was born, poor thing! the planets Marcury and
Haskell were disjunctive. Whatever is to be will you'll see trouble.
You have a dear friend: you set store by her."
Here the gypsy perceived that she had made another happy hit, for
Grace looked surprised again.
"This friend pretends to have a heart for you; you think she's true;
but mark my words,"--and the prophetess dropped her monotonous voice
to a hoarse whisper; "mark my words: you never were more mistaken in
your life."
Here Isa's face took on an expression of pleasure, and she touched
Grace's elbow, whispering, "Didn't I tell you so? There now!"
Grace grew an inch taller; would not look at Isa, but tossed a reply
to her over her shoulder:--
"Please don't say any more, Isa. The woman may have told the other
things right, but she's made a mistake about Cassy Hallock."
"Cassy Hallock! ah, that's the name," spoke up the gypsy. "What do you
say about mistakes? I don't make mistakes! I tell you that smooth
friend of yours is a snake in the grass. Flies buzz, girls talk. Don't
trust that girl. Trouble's coming thick as sand."
The girls cast pitying glances upon Grace, as if they already saw her
the victim of sorrow.
"Needn't curl your lip; you are soon to have a fever and lose all your
pretty hair. When you're twelve and some odd, your father'll die, and
the next year your mother'll die too. You're one of them that
considers every rain-storm nothing but a clearing-off shower; but
you'll find one storm that won't clear off. You'll near about come
nigh starving, miss. It's an awful way to die; but you won't die so.
You'll be bit by a rattlesnake, and won't live a day after you're
sixteen year old."
Grace tried to laugh. "Come, girls," said she, "let's go."
"You're an awful unlucky child," cried the gypsy, pointing her finger
at Grace, who did not look quite humble enough yet. "You're very
_peart_ now; but trouble's coming: now you mark my words."
So saying, the crazy woman arose to enter the house; but as she saw
the smoke still clouding the air, a new freak seized her bewildered
brain. She quite forgot her character of fortune-teller, and shouted
aloud, "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Tell me one
thing before I have you, little army of grasshoppers: what did John
Baptist do with the locusts? Did he eat 'em raw, or did he smoke and
roast 'em?"
Then with "tinsel-slippered" feet, the gypsy entered the house, and
closed the door. The girls heard a shout of wild laughter. Could it be
from the gypsy? They started with one accord, and ran till they were
out of breath.
"Where are the baskets with our picnic?" cried Diademia, suddenly
pausing.
"Under one of the 'simmon-trees," replied Lucy Lane, who was a natural
housekeeper, and had carefully collected the scattered baskets, and
put them together in what she considered a safe place.
Now, who would dare go for them? Tho girls were hungry, but they were
also in a panic. Who could it be that had laughed so wildly? How did
they know that the strange creature might not spring out upon them,
and drag them into her den? Grace at last summoned courage, and the
girls followed her, hoping that nothing dreadful could happen to any
one but Grace, after such excellent fortunes.
They went to the persimmon-trees, but found no baskets. Lucy, usually
timid and irresolute, was firm enough in this case. She had placed the
baskets under a certain tree; but they were not there now, neither
could they be found.
"Magic!" murmured Di.
"I wonder," said Grace, "if they've been magicked off? What if I go
ask our gypsy?"
She stepped cautiously along towards the house.
"Gracie Clifford, you don't dare."
"How do you know that, Isa?"
"Don't go," whispered the girls, crouching together behind the trees.
They were divided in their minds between superstitious terror and
sharp hunger.
Grace's eyes were flashing with strong excitement. She was as much
frightened as any of the others; but a spirit of desperation had
seized her, and she walked up to the house and entered it in spite of
the feeble remonstrances of the girls.
She did not come out again for several minutes, and by that time her
companions were alarmed. Not that they really believed the
"fortune-woman" was an ogress, who ate children; but they did not know
clearly what they did believe, and herein was the chief perplexity. If
the gypsy had only been like other human beings! But that she
certainly was not.
Grace came out of the cottage at last.
"Did you find her?" cried the girls.
"Yes, but not the baskets. Where, think, she was? Sitting on the
stove, muttering over some magic to top the smoke. There was her red
robe, or whatever it is, on the floor, with something under it. I went
up to her, and said I, 'Do you know, ma'am, where our baskets are?'--I
reckon she doesn't like me. Why, girls, she glared at me like a wild
tiger, and told me if I touched a hem of that red thing I'd be sorry,
for she was the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and I don't
know what all."
"O, fie! I wouldn't have minded that," said Di. "Why didn't you go
right along and take up the cloak? I'd have done it in a twinkling."
"Then you may go do it, Di," retorted Grace, who thought such a
scornful remark was but a poor return for her own valiant conduct. Di
was dumb. "But," continued Grace, "I just feel as if those baskets
were under that cloak; I do _so_."
"If she eats my cookies," said Isa, "I hope they'll choke her."
"There now, Gracie, what shall we do?" sighed Lucy Lane, trying to
conceal her tears. "I brought three custards, and a silver teaspoon,
and six slices of pound-cake; and Jane covered them up with one of
ma's nice napkins. O, dear, dear, dear!"
"My basket," said Judith Pitcher, "was ma's sweet little French
bird's-nest, they call it, with a bird at each end for a handle. I'd
starve to death and never mind it; but it's that basket that breaks my
heart."
"Girls, I'm going home to tell my pa to get a search-warrant, and a
policeman, and a protest; see if I don't," cried Diademia, half
frantic.
"Di Jones, if you do," interposed Isa, "if you let on one word about
this fix, you'll be turned straight out of our society. Didn't we
promise secrecy till death?"
"Hush!" said Grace, soothingly; "let's hunt the baskets a little
longer."
Accordingly they searched in all directions as long as they dared,
then set their faces towards home, tired and discouraged. Lucy Lane
stealthily wiped a few tears from her eyes.
"Pretty doings!" whispered Di, confidentially. "_Gracie_ has got us
into a curious fix."
Lucy wondered how Grace could be blamed, but had not the courage to
take her part; so she merely gave a little groan, which Di understood
to mean, "Yes, dear; just so."
Lucy was what Grace Clifford called a "yes-yes sort of girl;" she
agreed with everybody.
"You see now, Lucy, if Grace had said, up and down, she wouldn't go to
see this horrid old witch, why, we would not have stirred a step.
Grace is our queen; oughtn't she to keep us out of mischief, pray?"
"Yes," said Lucy, "I think so too.--O, my silver teaspoon!"
Grace and Isa were also talking in confidence. In spite of the lost
baskets Isa "walked on thrones."
"So queer, Gracie, what she said about Cassy Hallock!"
"O, Isa, I believe she's the Witch of Endor."
"Now, Grace Clifford, I'll tell you how Cassy slanders you, only you
can't make me say where I heard it. A forward little miss, she says,
you are, always speaking up when you aren't spoken to. Mighty grand
you feel. Right vain of your hair, she says; but it's not auburn--it's
fire-red."
"Why, Isa Harrington," cried Grace, breathless with surprise, "Panoria
Swan has fire-red hair. I'll leave it to you--does it look a speck
like mine?"
"Dear me, no, indeed, Gracie. Nobody ever dreamed of such an idea but
just Cassy. But that's not all, nor half. She says her ma don't like
her to go with you so much. There, that's all I'll tell."
"Isa Harrington, I can't believe one word of that last part," said
Grace, indignantly; "it's a mistake, and you may take it back."
"I can't take back the sober, solemn, honest truth," returned Isa,
firmly.
"Seems to me Cassy's changed amazingly, then," said Grace, with a
quivering voice.
"Hasn't she seemed rather odder since the oyster party, Gracie? I mean
Mrs. Hallock?"
"Why, no," said Grace, hesitating; "no, indeed! Let me see: once or
twice she wouldn't let Cassy go home with me farther than the
acorn-tree; but that was because she must have her mind the
baby.--Here we are at home."
Grace was not ready to believe that her friend and her friend's mother
were both so treacherous; still, she entered the house in a state of
much perplexity.