FORTUNE TELLING.
"Lady, cross the Gipsy's hand with gold,
She will to you the future unfold."
--Mae.
"What a beautiful spot! how lovely if we could go on shore and
investigate."
"Yes, Miss Litchfield, that is an excellent idea of yours. I will order
the boats out, and if the company are willing we will row over and
land."
The Hon. Jerry goes rapidly away to give the order. Dolores is sitting
in a camp chair on the deck of the Hon. Jerry's yacht, a scarlet shawl
thrown lightly over her pretty shoulders. The yacht has glided into one
of the most charming inlets of beautiful scenery Dolores' eyes have seen
since her return from abroad.
"Are we to really go on shore?" demands Rea Severn, lifting for a moment
her eyes from the crazy cushion she is engaged in making. She has been
industriously at work, with her eyes fixed most devoutly on the silks
and crewels, but her ears have heard every word Dolores and the Hon.
Jerry have spoken for the last twenty minutes.
"I believe so," Dolores answers absently. She is busy gazing dreamily
across the deep, blue, shining, sparkling, rippling waters.
"Come, ladies, let us be up and doing; the boats are ready."
Gordon Aubrey flings overboard the cigar he has been smoking, and a
general move is made. Rea Severn hastily tosses aside her work, and puts
on the hat her maid has brought. Rea, Dolores, Mrs. St. James, Gordon
Aubrey, the Hon. Jerry, Ned Crane, and Florrie Silverstone depart. The
other members of the party are either too lazy, or have something to do
more pleasing to their minds than going to explore a place which would
in all probability be "abounding in snakes, bugs, and other venomous
reptiles," as old Lady Streathmere observed when she was told of the
intended expedition. Lord Streathmere would have gone too, and been only
too happy, especially as Dolores went, for poor Lord Streathmere was very
severely smitten with pretty, gentle Dolores; but unfortunately for him
he had gone on the tug boat to view a wrecked steamer some five or six
miles away.
Ned Crane whispered, as he took his accustomed place by Dolores' side,
"that he was just as glad Streathmere could not come, as there was no
room for him in the boat." Mrs. St. James smiles languidly, endeavoring
now and then to stem the current of squabbling going on between Florrie
Silverstone and Gordon Aubrey. They never agree; so at last Arial gives
the attempt up in despair, and turns her attention to Ned and Dolores.
When at length the boat grates on the beach, three little children, with
bare feet, are building castles in the sand. They are well dressed
children, probably boarding here for the summer months. They gaze in
wide eyed wonder at the boat and her occupants; evidently they are not
accustomed to have their sandy domains intruded upon by strangers. The
eldest, a girl of eight or nine, accosted Gordon Aubrey.
"Have you come to have your fortune told?" she asked sharply.
"Will you do me the honor to tell me mine?" he answered with all due
respect to the oracle. She looked him over critically, from the toe of
his trim shoe to the top of his jaunty sailor hat.
"People like you, with only one eye, and the other one glass, can't have
much to be told, I know," the tiny maid replies, looking at him from
under her big shady hat.
"Who tells fortunes on this fairy island? won't you tell me, little
one?" Mrs. St. James touches the child's dark curly head caressingly.
"Molly will; but you have to give her gold, or she won't." This
information was supplied by one of the other children.
"What a joke if we could find some one who could tell us," Rea Severn
cries.
Jerry Hopkins shows the girl a bright silver dollar, and says if she
will show them where "Molly" is to be found she may consider herself the
happy possessor of the aforesaid dollar.
"Certainly, I will take you to Molly's tent, but mamma never allows us
to take money from strangers," the tiny maiden replies, as she sat down
in the sand to put on her stockings and slippers. Then she led the way
to the Gipsy's camp. Jerry Hopkins put the rejected offering in his
pocket, thinking that some children are wiser than people twice their
age.
"Here's her tent, and there's Molly. See Molly," she cries, "I brought
you some people that want you to tell them their fortune. Will you tell
them, Molly? Will you?"
"Ah, little Miss, you never forget old Molly, do you, dearie? Tell them
to come in." Dolores feels a shiver go over her; a nasty, creepy,
crawley sensation always seizes her at the mention of either Gipsy or
Indian. Auntie always had such a horror of all such travelling
companies. It may have been hearing her talk of them with so much
repulsion that made Dolores, who is generally so fearless, feel nervous
now.
"You are not frightened?" Ned Crane has watched Dolores' pretty pink
colour die slowly out of her face and lips.
"Let the others go in; we will stand out here by the door to take in all
that is going on inside."
When she finds she is not expected to go inside the miserable hut,
Dolores brightens up, and the pink comes back to her cheeks. So they
station themselves in the doorway. Contrary to most people of their or
her profession, the Gipsy allows them all to remain; so, as each is
being warned of that which is in store for them, good, bad or
indifferent, every one hears what every one else is told.
"She seems pretty well up in the arts," Ned whispers; Dolores nods; she
is listening intently. Mrs. St. James has shuffled and cut the cards,
she has also wished in obedience to the rule.
"Your path has once been more rugged than that which you now tread, my
lady. There is a dark spot in your past, on which you pray, the light of
knowledge may never shine. There is one here present, who can betray you
if she chooses."
Mrs. St. James glances toward the door; the gipsy's eyes also take the
same direction. Dolores stands there, placidly, calmly; she meets the
eyes turned on her with cool indifference; her pocket-handkerchief drops
to the ground; she stoops to pick it up, and the gipsy goes on:
"There is a dark gentleman here whom you will have some trouble with.
There is a disappointment for you; but you will get your wish even if it
does turn out differently from what you think. You will get some money,
and there is a pleasant conversation with a light man. He has a good
heart for you; will tell you some pleasant news. You will receive a
letter within a day or two. Your life will be full of ups and downs, the
same as most of us."
"Now, pretty lady, will you cross the gipsy's palm?" She has turned to
Rea Severn. "You are anxious about the doings of a fair man; but my
pretty one, put no faith in him; the men are fickle, the best of them.
You will be a little sick, not much, but brought on by your own
foolishness. Let me advise you to drop the habit you have contracted. If
you do not kill it, it will kill you; so be guided."
Rea shivers; she begins to feel a little frightened; she is glad the
others are behind her; it would not answer for them to see the
expression of fear on her face. Then each of the others had their turn.
Dolores refused to have anything to do with cards; she despised the very
sight of them. She told Ned they sent a cold chill over her, and Ned
believed it.
"How silly! What ails you, Dolores? You are generally one of the last to
back down when any fun is going on," Florrie Silverstone says
petulantly. There have been some facts told Florrie, by the gipsy, which
have made her a little cross. But Dolores is busy, and does not answer.
She has taken some tall golden-eyed daisies from the hedge row.
"It is a much pleasanter way to tell one's own fortune, you know," she
tells Ned, the ever attentive; and of course Ned agrees--he always does
to what pretty Dolores says.
"He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, how nice," Dolores laughs
softly, as she flings the petalless flower in the water.
"Will it be a soldier smart, who will storm and take me?
Or will a sailor break my heart, his figure-head to make me?
Will it be a man to preach, Even-song and Matin?
Or shall I go to school again, with Jack to teach me Latin?
Will it be a coach and four? Will it be a carriage?
Or will a cart be at the door, to take me to my marriage?"
Sings Jerry blithely.
"Why, Jerry, old fellow, have you just woke up?" cries Gordon Aubrey.
"Jerry has such a sweet, fine, sympathetic voice; almost think it was a
chime of bells," Florrie Silverstone says saucily.
Now this is rather hard on the Hon. Jerry, his voice, on the contrary,
having once been compared favourably with a bass drum. But it being his
favourite cousin, Florrie, who made the remark, it was, considering the
person who expressed the implied sarcasm, overlooked.
"There is Lord Streathmere waving his hat to us from the deck," cries
Rea. "We must not for the world say we have had our fortunes told,
before Lady Streathmere, for she would be shocked. Now remember, not a
word." Mrs. St. James holds up a warning finger, and she expects all to
obey.
"Well, my dears, you must be very tired, I dare say you tramped all over
that island this morning, and what reward did you get for your pains?"
The party are all on deck enjoying the beautiful sunset. Tea has been
over for some time, the wind is blowing softly over the deep blue and
green patches of water, and makes the yacht rock gently from side to
side.
"Do you not consider having one's fortune told a sufficient reward?"
Dolores' lazy tones inquire.
Now it so happened that Dolores, if she did hear Arial's command, had by
now forgotten all about it. Gordon Aubrey coughed frantically; there
seemed every reason to believe that he would strangle to death. Florrie
giggled, they all did their best to cover up the effects of Dolores'
unfortunate words. However, it was Florrie who saved them all from
disgrace.
Lady Streathmere adjusted her gold eye-glasses firmly and cautiously
upon her aquiline nose. "You seem to be prone to a cold, my dear; do you
take any remedy for it? Now something hot would, I know, be most
beneficial." And Florrie, in a voice choking with laughter, said she
thought she must.
"Now I know just how you came by your wretched cold. Quite likely the
grass was wet on the island this morning, and your feet have got damp,
and last night you stayed out here quite late, and you know the night
air is bad for any one with a weak throat. Now if you young people won't
mind, I think I would be more comfortable where the fire is," and the
poor unsuspecting lady arose, and, escorted by Jerry to the saloon door,
disappeared.