Gipsy.
"A little, wild-eyed, tawny child,
A fairy sprite, untamed and wild,
Like to no one save herself,
A laughing, mocking, gipsy elf."
Year after year glides away, and we wonder vaguely that they can have
passed. On our way to the grave we may meet many troubles, but time
obliterates them all, and we learn to laugh and talk as merrily again as
though the grass was not growing between our face and one we could never
love enough. But such is life.
Ten years have passed away at St. Mark's since the close of our last
chapter; ten years of dull, tedious monotony. The terrible sight that
had met Lizzie Oranmore's eyes that morning, was the dead form of her
young husband. He had been riding along at his usual reckless, headlong
pace, and had been thrown from his horse and killed.
Under the greensward in the village church-yard, they laid his
world-weary form to rest, with only the name inscribed on the cold,
white marble to tell he had ever existed. And no one dreamed of the
youthful romance that had darkened all the life of Barry Oranmore. Lying
on the still heart, that had once beat so tumultuously, they found the
miniature of a fair young face and a long tress of sunny hair. Wondering
silently to whom they belonged, good Mrs. Gower laid them aside, little
dreaming of what they were one day to discover.
Lizzie, with her usual impulsiveness, wept and sobbed for a time
inconsolably. But it was not in her shallow, thoughtless nature to
grieve long for any one; and ere a year had passed, she laughed as gayly
and sang as merrily as ever.
Sometimes, it may be, when her child--her boy--would look up in her face
with the large dark eyes of him who had once stolen her girlish heart
away, tears for a moment would weigh down her golden eyelashes; but the
next instant the passing memory was forgotten, and her laugh again rang
out merry and clear.
And so the ten years had passed, and no change had taken place at Sunset
Hall save that it was far from being the quiet place it had been
formerly.
Has the reader forgotten Aurora, the little foundling of yelling
notoriety? If so, it is no fault of hers, for that shrill-voiced young
lady never allowed herself to be pushed aside to make room for any one.
Those ten years at least made a change in her.
See her now, as she stands with her dog by her side, for a moment, to
rest, in the quaint old porch fronting Sunset Hill. She has been romping
with Lion this morning, and now, panting and breathless, she pauses for
an instant to prepare for a fresh race. There she stands! A little,
slight, wiry, agile figure, a little thin, dark, but bright and
sparkling face, with small, irregular features, never for a moment at
rest. With a shower of short, crisp, dark curls streaming in the breeze,
every shining ring dancing with life, and fire, and mirth, and mischief.
And with such eyes, looking in her face you forgot every other feature
gazing in those "bonny wells of brown," that seemed fairly scintillating
wickedness. How they did dance, and flash, and sparkle, with youth, and
glee, and irrepressible fun--albeit the darker flame that now and then
leaped from their shining depths bespoke a wild, fierce spirit, untamed
and daring, slumbering in her heart, quiet and unaroused as yet, but
which would one day burst forth, scathing, blighting all on whom it
fell.
And such is Aurora Gower. A wild, dark, elfish changeling, not at all
pretty, but the most bewitching sprite withal, that ever kept a
household in confusion. Continually getting into scrapes and making
mischief, and doing deeds that would have been unpardonable in any one
else, Aurora, in some mysterious way of her own, escaped censure, and
the most extravagant actions were passed over with the remark, that it
was "just like her--just what you might expect from a gipsy." Owing to
her dark skin and wild habits, "Gipsy" was the name by which Mrs.
Gower's _protegee_ was universally known. With every one she was a
favorite, for though always saucy, often impertinent, and invariably
provoking, it was impossible to be angry with a little fairy of a
creature whom they could almost hold up between their finger and thumb.
As for the burly old squire, he could as soon think of getting along
without his brandy as without Gipsy. For though they continually
quarreled, he abusing her unmercifully, and she retorting impudently,
yet, when Gipsy at the end would flounce out in a towering passion, she
was sure a few hours after to find a peace-offering from the old man, in
the shape of a costly gift, lying on her table. After some coaxing she
would consent to forgive him, and Squire Erliston and his little ward
would smoke the calumet of peace (figuratively speaking); but, alas! for
the short-lived truce--ere another hour the war of words would be raging
"fast and furious" once more.
Good Mrs. Gower zealously strove to impress on the wayward elf a
becoming respect for the head of the household; and sometimes, in a fit
of penitence, Aurora would promise "not to give Guardy any more bile,"
but being by nature woefully deficient in the bump of reverence, the
promise had never been kept; and at last the worthy housekeeper gave up
the task in despair.
And so Aurora was left pretty much to follow her "own sweet will," and
no one need wonder that she grew up the maddest, merriest elf that ever
danced in the moonlight. At the age of eleven she could ride with the
best horseman for miles around, hunt like a practiced sportsman, bring
down a bird on the wing with her unerring bullet, and manage a boat with
the smartest fisherman in St. Marks. Needle-work, dolls, and other
amusements suitable for her age, she regarded with the utmost contempt,
and with her curls streaming behind her, her hat swinging in her hand,
she might be seen flying about the village from morning till night,
always running, for she was too quick and impetuous to walk. In the
stormiest weather, when the winds were highest and the sea roughest, she
would leap into one of the fishermen's boats, and unheeding storm and
danger, go out with them, in spite of commands and entreaties to the
contrary, until danger and daring became with her second nature. But
while Aurora has been standing for her picture the rest of the family
have assembled in the breakfast-parlor of Mount Sunset Hall. Languidly
stretched on a sofa lay Lizzie Oranmore. Those ten years have made no
change in her; just the same rose-leaf complexion, the same round,
little graceful figure, the same coquettish airs and graces as when we
saw her last. She might readily have been taken for the elder sister of
her son, Louis, who stood by the window sketching the view before him.
There was a striking resemblance between Louis and his dead father; the
same clear, olive complexion, the same sable locks and bold black eyes,
the same scornful, curving upper lip, and the same hot, rash, impetuous
nature. But with all his fiery impetuosity he was candid, open and
generous, the soul of honor and frankness, but with a nature which,
according as it was trained, must be powerful for good or evil.
Sitting propped up in an easy-chair, with his gouty leg, swathed in
flannel, stretched on two chairs, was the squire, looking in no very
sweet frame of mind. The morning paper, yet damp from the press, lay
before him; but the squire's attention would wander from it every moment
to the door.
"Where's that little wretch this morning?" broke out the squire, at
last, throwing down his paper impatiently.
"I really can't say," replied Lizzie, opening her eyes languidly. "I saw
her racing over the hills this morning, with those dreadful dogs of
hers. I expect she will be back soon."
"And we must wait for her ladyship!" growled the squire. "I'll cane her
within an inch of her life if she doesn't learn to behave herself.
'Spare the child and spoil the rod,' as Solomon says."
"Here she comes!" exclaimed Louis, looking up. "Speak of Satan and he'll
appear."
"Satan! She's no Satan, I'd have you know, you young jackanapes!" said
the squire, angrily, for though always abusing the "little vixen,"
Aurora, himself, he would suffer no one else to do it.
"Look, look how she dashes along!" exclaimed Louis, with kindling eyes,
unheeding the reproof. "There! she has leaped her pony over the gate,
and now she is standing up in her saddle; and--bravo! well done, Gipsy!
She has actually sprung over black Jupe's head in a flying leap."
While he spoke Gipsy came running up the lawn toward the house, singing,
in a high, shrill voice, as she ran:
"He died long, long ago, long ago--
He had no hair on the top of his head,
The place where the wool ought to grow,
Lay down the shovel and the hoe-o-o,
Hang up----"
"Stop that, stop that, you vixen! Stop it, I tell you, or I'll hang
_you_ up!" said the squire, angrily. "Where do you learn those vulgar
doggerels?"
"Make 'em up, Guardy--every one of 'em. Ain't I a genius?"
"I don't believe it, you scapegrace."
"No wonder you don't, seeing there never was a genius in the family
before; but 'better late than never,' you know."
"None of your impertinence, miss. Give an account of yourself, if you
please. Where were you this morning? Answer me _that_!"
"Nowhere, sir."
"Don't tell stories, you little sinner. Where is nowhere?"
"Over to Doctor Spider's."
"Gipsy, my dear, why will you persist in calling Doctor Wiseman
nicknames?" remonstrated Lizzie.
"Why, Aunt Liz, because he's just like a spider, for all the world--all
legs," flippantly replied Gipsy.
"And what business had you there, monkey? Didn't I tell you not to go? I
thought I told you _never_ to go there!" said the squire, in rising
wrath.
"Know it, Guardy, and that's just the reason I went."
"Because I forbade you, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"You--you--you disobedient little hussy, you! Aren't you ashamed of
yourself?"
"Ashamed!--what of? I haven't got the gout in my leg."
"Gipsy, you dreadful child, hush!" said Lizzie, in alarm.
"Oh, let her go on! She's just as you taught her, madam. And as to you,
Miss Gipsy, or Aurora, or whatever your name is, let me tell you, the
gout is nothing to be ashamed of. It runs in the most respectable
families, miss."
"Lord, Guardy! What a pity I can't have it, too, and help to keep up the
respectability of the family!"
Louis turned to the window, and struggled violently with a laugh, which
he endeavored to change into a cough, and the laugh and cough meeting,
produced a choking sensation. This sent Gipsy to his aid, who, after
administering sundry thumps on his back with her little closed fists,
restored him to composure, and the squire returned to the charge.
"And now, to 'return to our mutton,' as Solomon says; or--hold on a
minute--was it Solomon who said that?"
The squire paused, and placed his finger reflectively on the point of
his nose, in deep thought; but being unable to decide, he looked up, and
went on:
"Yes, miss, as I was saying, what took you over to Deep Dale so early
this morning? Tell me that."
"Well, if I must, I must, I s'pose--so here goes."
"Hallo, Gipsy!" interrupted Louis. "Take care--you're making poetry."
"No, sir! I scorn the accusation!" said Gipsy, drawing herself up. "But,
Guardy, since I _must_ tell you, I went over to see--ahem!--Archie!"
"You did!" grunted Guardy. "Humph! humph! humph!"
"Don't take it so much to heart, Guardy. No use grieving--'specially as
the grief might settle in your poor afflicted leg--limb, I mean."
"And may I ask, young lady, what you could possibly want with him?" said
the squire, sternly.
"Oh, fifty things! He's my beau, you know."
"Your beau!--_your_ beau!--your BEAU! My conscience!"
"Yes, sir, we're engaged."
"You are? 'Oh, Jupiter,' as Solomon says. Pray, madam (for such I
presume you consider yourself), when will you be twelve years old?"
"Oh, as soon as I can. I don't want to be an old maid."
"So it seems, you confounded little Will-o'-the-wisp. And will you be
good enough to inform us how this precious engagement came about?" said
the squire, with a savage frown.
"With pleasure, sir. You see, we went out to gather grapes in the wood
one day, and we had a splendiferous time. And says I, 'Archie, ain't
this nice?'--and says he 'Yes'--and says I, 'Wouldn't it be nice if we'd
get married?'--and says he, 'Yes'--and says I, '_Will_ you have me,
though?'--and says he, 'Yes'--and says I----"
"'Ain't we a precious pair of fools?' and says he, 'Yes,'" interrupted
the squire, mimicking her. "Oh, you're a nice gal--you're a pretty young
lady!"
"Yes, ain't I, now? You and I are of one opinion there, exactly. Ain't
you proud of me?"
"_Proud_ of you, you barefaced little wretch! I'd like to twist your
neck for you!" thundered the squire.
"Better not, Guardy; you'd be hung for _man_-slaughter if you did, you
know."
"_You_ don't call yourself a man, I hope!" said Louis.
"Well, if I don't, I'm a girl--which is a thousand times nicer. And
speaking of girls, reminds me that Miss Hagar's got the dearest,
darlingest, _beautifulest_ little girl you ever set your eyes on."
"Miss Hagar?" they all exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes, to be sure. Law! you needn't look so astonished; this is a free
country. And why can't Miss Hagar have a little girl, if she wants to,
as well as anybody else, I'd like to know?" exclaimed Gipsy, rather
indignantly.
"To be sure," said Louis, who took the same view of the case as Gipsy.
"Where did she get it?--whose little girl is it?" inquired Lizzie,
slightly roused from her languor by the news.
"Don't know, I'm sure; nobody don't. She was off somewhere poking round
all day yesterday, and came home at night with this little girl. Oh,
Louis, she's such a dear little thing!"
"Is she?" said Louis, absently.
"Yes, indeed--with a face like double-refined moonlight, and long,
yellow hair, and blue eyes, and pink dress, and cheeks to match. She's
twice as pretty as Minette; and Miss Hagar's going to keep her, and
teach her to tell fortunes, I expect."
"I wonder Dr. Wiseman allows Miss Hagar to fill the house with little
beggars," said Lizzie.
"Oh, Spider's got nothing to do with it. Miss Hagar has money of her
own, and can keep her if she likes. Pity if she'd have to ask permission
of that 'thing of legs and arms,' everything she wants to do."
"Gipsy, my dear, you really must not speak so of Dr. Wiseman: it's
positively shocking," said the highly-scandalized Mrs. Oranmore.
"Well, I don't care; he _is_ a 'thing of legs and arms.' There, now!"
"What's the little girl's name, Gipsy?" inquired Louis.
"_Celeste_--isn't it pretty? And she--oh, she's a darling, and no
mistake. _Wouldn't_ I marry her if I was a man--maybe I wouldn't."
"What's her other name?"
"Got none--at least she said so; and, as I didn't like to tell her she
told a story, I asked Miss Hagar, and _she_ told me to mind my own
business; yes, she actually did. Nobody minds how they talk to me.
People haven't a bit of respect for me; and I have to put up with _sass_
from every one. I won't stand it much longer, either. There!"
"No, I wouldn't advise you to," said Louis. "Better _sit_ down; no use
in standing it."
"Wiseman's a fool if he lets that crazy tramp, his sister, support
beggars in his house," exclaimed the squire, in a threatening tone.
"Lunatics like her should not be allowed to go at large. He has no
business to permit it."
"I'd like to see him trying to stop it," said Gipsy. "I'd be in his
wool."
"_You!_" said the squire, contemptuously. "What could a little Tom Thumb
in petticoats, like you, do?"
"Look here, now, Guardy, don't call a lady names. When you speak of Tom
Thumb, you know, it's getting personal. What could I do? Why, I'd set
his house on fire some night about his ears, or some day, when out
shooting, a bullet might strike him accidentally on purpose. It takes me
to defend injured innocence," said Gipsy, getting up, and squaring-off
in an attitude of defiance, as she exclaimed: "Come on, old Wiseman, I'm
ready for you!"
"Well, I can't allow you to associate with beggars. You must never go to
Deep Dale again. I can't countenance his proceedings. If he choose to
make a fool of himself, it's no reason why I should do so too."
"None in the world, sir--especially as nature has saved you that
trouble."
"You audacious little demon, you! what do you mean?"
"Ahem! I was just observing, sir, that it's time for breakfast," said
Gipsy, demurely.
"Humph! humph! well, ring for Mrs. Gower, and hold your tongue."
"Sorry I can't oblige you, Guardy. But how can I hold my tongue and
eat?"
"I wish I could find something to take the edge off it; it's altogether
too sharp," growled the old man to himself.
Mrs. Gower, fat and good-natured as ever, entered at this moment; and,
as they assembled round the table, the squire--who, though he generally
got the worst of the argument, would never let Gipsy rest--again resumed
the subject.
"Mind, monkey, you're not to go to Deep Dale again; I forbid
you--positively forbid you."
"Lor! Guardy, you don't say so!"
"Don't be disrespectful, minx. If I'm your guardian, you shall obey me.
You heard me say so before, didn't you?"
"Why, yes, I think so; but, then, you say so many things, a body can't
be expected to remember them all. You _must_ be talking, you know; and
you might as well be saying that as anything else."
"But I am determined you shall obey me this time. Do you hear? At your
peril, minion, _dare_ to go there again!" thundered the squire.
"That very pretty, Guardy, won't you say it over again," replied the
tantalizing elf.
"Gipsy! oh, Gipsy, my dear!" chanted the ladies Gower and Oranmore, in a
horrified duet.
"You--you--you--little, yellow abomination you! You--you--skinny----"
"Squire Erliston," said Gipsy, drawing herself up with stately dignity,
"let me remind you, you are getting to be personal. How would you like
it if I called _you_--you--you red-faced old fright--you--you--you
gouty-legged----"
"There! there! that'll do," hastily interrupted the squire, while a
universal shout of laughter went round the table at the ludicrous manner
in which the little imp mimicked his blustering tone. "There, there!
don't say a word about it; but mind, if you dare to go to Dr. Wiseman's,
you'll rue it. Mind that."
"All right, sir; let me help you to another roll," said Gipsy, with her
sweetest smile, as she passed the plate to the old man, who looked, not
only daggers, but bowie-knives at the very least.