GIPSY ASTONISHES THE NATIVES.
"What mighty mischief glads her now?"--FIRE WORSHIPERS.
Among the villagers of St. Mark's, the mad-headed, wild-eyed, fearless
Gipsy Gower was a universal favorite. Not one among them but had
received from her warm heart and generous hand some service. The squire
furnished his "imp" plentifully with pocket-money, which was invariably
bestowed with careless generosity upon the poor of the parish; but given
in a way that precluded all thanks. Sometimes the door would be thrust
open with such violence as to wake the inmates, thinking a troop of
horse was about to favor them with a visit, and her purse flung into the
middle of the floor; and away she would ride like a flash. But on these
occasions they were never at a loss to know the donor. If, on her next
visit, they began to thank her for her gift, Gipsy indignantly denied
all knowledge of it, and positively refused to listen to them.
Dr. Wiseman, who was a pretty extensive land-owner, had several tenants
in the remotest part of the village, whom he forced to pay an exorbitant
rent, giving them to understand that unless they paid it on the very day
it came due, out they must go! One evening, about dusk, Gipsy, who had
been riding out, was overtaken by a storm of wind and rain, and sought
shelter in one of the cottages.
On entering she found the whole family in deep distress. The head of the
family sat gazing moodily at the fire: his wife, surrounded by her
children, was weeping; and they, following her example, had set up a
clamorous cry.
"Why, what's up now? What's the matter, Mrs. Brown?" inquired Gipsy, in
surprise.
"Oh, Miss Gipsy! is it you? Sit down. Alas, it's the last time we can
ever ask you!" said the woman, with a fresh burst of tears.
"Why, are you going to turn me out the next time I come?" said Gipsy,
taking the proffered seat.
"Heaven forbid we'd ever turn you out, Miss Gipsy, after all you've done
for us!" said the woman; "but after to-night we'll no longer have a roof
to shelter us."
"You won't, eh? Do you intend to set fire to this old shanty, and burn
it down?" inquired Gipsy.
"No, no; but Dr. Wiseman was here for his rent (this is pay-day, you
know), and we haven't a cent in the house to give him. Mr. Brown's been
sick mostly all summer, and all we could make it took to feed the
children. And now Dr. Wiseman says he'll turn us out, to starve or beg,
to-morrow," replied the woman through her tears.
"The old sinner!" exclaimed Gipsy, through her hard-closed teeth. "Did
you ask him to give you time to pay?"
"Yes, I went on my knees, and begged him to spare us for a few months,
and we would pay him every cent; but he wouldn't. He said he would give
us until to-morrow morning, and if we didn't have it then, out we must
go."
For a moment Gipsy was silent, compressing her lips to keep down her
fiery wrath, while the woman wept more passionately than ever.
"Have his other tenants paid him?" inquired Gipsy, at length.
"Yes, all but us."
"When did he start for home?"
"Not five minutes ago?"
"Which way did he take?" said Gipsy, springing to her feet, and
beginning to examine her pistols.
"He went over the hills," said the man at the fire, speaking now for the
first time; "I heard them say he was afraid to be robbed if he went
round by the road, as he had all the money he got from the tenants with
him."
"All right, then, Mrs. Brown, my dear woman. Keep up heart; and if some
good fairy gets you out of this scrape, don't say a word about it. Good
night."
"You had better not venture alone in the storm," said Mrs. Brown,
anxiously; "one of the boys will go with you."
"Thank you, there's no necessity. I feel safer on Mignonne's back than
with all the boys that ever afflicted the world for its sins for a
body-guard. So mind my words, 'hold on to the last,' as the shoemaker
said, and don't despair."
The last words were lost in the storm of wind and rain, as she opened
the door. Springing on the back of Mignonne, she turned his head in the
direction of the hills, and sped over the ground as rapidly as her
fleet-footed Arabian could carry her.
Through the night, and wind, and rain, over the dangerous hilly path
jogged Dr. Wiseman. He scarcely felt the storm, for a talisman in the
shape of a well-filled pocket-book lay pressed to his avaricious heart.
His mare, a raw-boned old brute, as ugly as her master, walked along
slowly, manifesting a sublime contempt for storm and wind that would
have done the heart of a philosopher good. What her thoughts were about
it, would be hard to say; but her master's ran on money, robbers,
highwaymen, and other such "knights of the road."
"There are many desperate characters in the village who know I have a
large sum of money about me, and who would no more mind waylaying,
robbing, and perhaps murdering me, than I would of turning the Brown's
out to-morrow. Luckily, however, they'll think I've taken the village
road," said the doctor to himself, in a sort of soliloquy, "and so I'll
escape them. But this road is a dismal one, and seems just the place for
a rendezvous of robbers. Now, if a highwayman were to step up from
behind one of these rocks, and cry----"
"Your money or your life!" cried a deep, sepulchral voice at his ear,
with such startling suddenness that, with an exclamation of horror and
fear, the doctor nearly fell from his seat.
Recovering himself, he strove to see the robber, but in the deep
darkness and beating rain it was impossible. But though he couldn't see,
he could hear, and the sharp click of a pistol distinctly met his ear.
"Your money or your life!" repeated the low, hoarse voice, in an
imperious tone.
For reply, the doctor, rendered desperate by the fear of losing his
money, drew a pistol and fired. As it flashed, he saw for a moment a
horse standing before him, but the rider seemed to have lain flat down,
for no man was there. Ere he could draw his second pistol, his horse was
grasped by the bridle-rein, and the cold muzzle of a pistol was pressed
to his temple.
"Your money or your life!" cried a fierce, excited voice that terror
alone prevented him from recognizing. "Deliver up your money, old man,
or this instant you shall die."
"Oh, spare my life!" cried the wretched doctor, in an agony of terror,
for the cold ring of steel still pressed his temple like the deadly fang
of a serpent. "Spare my life, for God's sake, and you shall have all!
I'm a poor man, but you shall have it."
"Quick, then," was the imperious rejoinder, as the doctor fumbled in his
pockets, and at last, with a deep groan of despair, surrendered the
plump pocket-book to the daring outlaw.
"That is all I have; now let me go," cried the miserable doctor.
"Yes; but first you must solemnly swear never to speak to man, woman, or
child of what has occurred to-night. Swear by your own miserable soul!"
"I swear!" groaned the unhappy doctor.
"And lest you should be tempted to commit perjury, and break your oath,
let me tell you that the very first attempt to do so will be followed by
instant _death_. Mind! I will watch you day and night, dog your steps
like a blood-hound, and if you dare to breathe it to living mortal, that
moment will be your last."
"I'll never mention it! I'll never speak of it. Oh, let me go," implored
the agonized Galen.
"Very well, then. I have the honor to wish you good-night. If you don't
ride straight home, I'll send a bullet through your head."
And with this cheering assurance the robber put spurs to the horse, and
rode off in the direction opposite to that leading to Deep Dale.
Little need was there to exhort the terror-stricken doctor to ride
straight home. Never before had the spavined old mare fled over the
ground with the velocity she did that night, and Doctor Wiseman did not
breathe freely until he was double-locked in his own room.
The Browns paid their rent the next day, and would no longer remain
tenants of the doctor. If he suspected any one, the robber's threat
caused him prudently to remain silent; but his wretched look was an
unfailing subject of mirth for Gipsy Gower for a month after, and the
cunning twinkle of her eye said as plainly as words:
"I know, but I won't tell."
One day, Gipsy fell into deeper disgrace with the squire than had ever
occurred before. In fact, it was quite an outrageous thing, and the only
apology I can offer for her is, that she meant no harm.
The Bishop of B., Senator Long, and a number of distinguished gentlemen
and ladies from the city had come to St. Mark's to spend a few days.
Squire Erliston, as a matter of course, immediately called to see his
friends, and a few days after gave a large dinner-party, to which they
were all invited.
The important day for the dinner-party arrived. Lizzie was up in her
room, dressing. Mrs. Gower was superintending affairs in the
dining-room. The squire, in full dress, sat alone, awaiting his friends.
As he sat, sleep overpowered him, and unconsciously he sank into a
profound slumber.
While he was snoring in peace, little dreaming of the fate awaiting
him, that little imp of mischief, Gipsy, entered. One glance sufficed,
and across her fertile brain there shot a demoniacal project of
mischief, while her whole form became instinct, and her wicked eyes
scintillated with fun.
Quitting the room, she returned presently with a box of lampblack in one
hand, and the mustard-pot in the other.
"Now, Guardy, you keep still a little while till I turn you into an
Indian chief, and here goes for your war-paint."
So saying, the little wretch drew a streak of mustard across his nose,
following it by a similar one of lampblack. And so she continued until
his whole face was covered with alternate stripes of yellow and black,
scarcely able to repress a shout of laughter as she worked, at the
unspeakably ludicrous appearance he presented.
Having exhausted her supply of paint, Gipsy stepped to the door to
survey her work, and unable longer to restrain a roar of laughter, fled
to her room, quivering with the anticipation of the fun to come.
Scarcely had she quitted the room when the door was flung open, and, in
pompous tones, the servant announced:
"De Right Reveren' Bishop of B., de Hon'ble Senator Long and Mrs. Long."
And the whole party, half a dozen in number, entered the apartment.
The noise awoke the squire; and a most musical snore was mercilessly
interrupted, and ended in a hysterical snort. Starting to his feet with
an expression of countenance that utterly repudiated the idea of his
having been asleep, he advanced with extended hand toward the bishop.
That high functionary drew back for a moment aghast, and glanced at his
companions in horror. Human nature could stand it no longer, and a
universal shout of laughter resounded through the room.
"Eh? What? Lord bless me, what's the matter?" said the squire, turning
his face from one to another, inwardly wondering if they had all gone
mad. "What are you laughing at?"
A fresh roar of laughter from the whole party answered this, as they all
pressed their hands to their sides, utterly unable to stop. Seeing this,
the squire at last began grinning with sympathy, thereby adding so much
to the ludicrousness of his appearance, that some threw themselves on
the floor, some on chairs and sofas, in perfect convulsions.
"What the deuce is it?" repeated the squire, at last losing patience.
"Will you oblige me by telling me what the matter is?"
"My dear sir," began the bishop, in tremulous tones.
The squire turned his painted face eagerly toward the speaker. In vain
he attempted to proceed, it was not in human nature to withstand that
face, and the bishop fell back in a paroxysm that threatened never to
end.
It was a scene for an artist. The row of convulsed faces around, pausing
for a moment breathlessly, but breaking forth louder than ever the
minute their eyes again fell upon him. And there sat the squire with his
black and yellow face, turning in dismay from one to another, his round
bullet-eyes ready to pop from their sockets.
At this moment the door opened, and Lizzie, Louis, and Mrs. Gower,
followed by all the servants in the house, attracted by the noise, burst
into the room. The moment their eyes fell on the squire, who had started
to his feet to address them, their looks of surprise vanished and, as if
by one accord, shout after shout of laughter broke from all. In vain did
the squire stamp, and fume, and demand to know what was the matter; his
only answer was a fresh explosion of mirth.
At last, in despair, Mrs. Gower managed to point to a mirror opposite.
The squire rushed frantically to the spot, and then paused, transfixed,
aghast with horror. Turning slowly round, he confronted his guests with
such a look of blank, utter dismay, that all the laughter previous was
nothing to the universal roar which followed that despairing glance.
Then bursting out with: "It's that fiend!--that demon incarnate!--that
little Jezebel has done this," he rushed from the room in search of her.
Gipsy, attracted by the laughter, had ventured cautiously to descend the
stairs. The squire perceived her, as like a flash she turned to fly.
With one galvanic bound he sprang up the stairs, seized her by the
shoulder, shouting:
"By Heaven! I'll pay you for this when they go!"
Then opening an adjoining door, he thrust her in, turned the key, put it
in his pocket, and rushed out of the house into the yard, where, by the
friendly aid of soap and hot water, and some hard scrubbing, he managed
to make himself once more look like a Christian.
Then, returning to his guests--who by this time had laughed themselves
into such a state that they could laugh no longer--he dispersed the
servants with sundry kicks and cuffs, and proceeded to explain, as well
as he was able, how it came about. Politeness forced the party to make
every effort to maintain their gravity, but more than once, while seated
in solemn conclave round the dinner-table, the recollection of the old
man's ludicrous appearance would prove too much for flesh and
blood--and, leaning back, they would laugh until the tears stood in
their eyes. Their example proving contagious, the whole party would join
in, to the great mortification of the squire--who inwardly vowed that
Gipsy should pay dearly for every additional laugh.
But for the squire to reckon without Gipsy was rather a hazardous
experiment. Seldom did that young lady find herself in a position from
which her genius would not extricate her--as the squire found to his
cost in the present instance.
Gipsy's first sensation at finding herself for the first time really a
prisoner was one of intense mortification, followed by indignation; and
her thoughts ran somewhat after the following fashion:
"The mean old thing!--to lock me up here just because I applied a little
mustard outside instead of inside! Never mind; if I don't fix him for
it, it'll be a wonder. So you'll pay me for this, will you, Guardy? Ah!
but you ain't sure of me yet, you see. If I don't outwit you yet, my
name's not Gipsy Roarer Gower! Now, Gipsy, my dear, set your wits to
work, and get yourself out of this black hole of a prison."
Going to the window, she looked out. The sight would have appalled any
one else; but it did not intimidate Gipsy. The room she was in was on
the third story, at a dizzy height from the ground. She looked around
for a rope to descend; but none did the room contain. What was she to
do? Gipsy raised herself on one toe to consider.
Suddenly her eye fell on a new suit of broadcloth her guardian had
brought home only the day before. She did not hesitate an instant.
To her great delight she found a pair of scissors in her pocket; and,
taking the coat and unmentionables from the wall where they hung, she
sat down and diligently fell to work cutting them into long strips.
Fifteen minutes passed, and nothing remained of Guardy's new clothes
but a long black knotted string--which, to her great delight, she found
would reach easily to the ground.
Fastening it to the window-sill securely, she began to descend, and in
ten minutes she stood once more on _terra firma_.
Going to the stables, she saddled Mignonne and led him to the front
gate, where she left him standing. Then, with unheard-of audacity, she
entered the hall, opened the dining-room door, and thrusting in her
wicked little head, she exclaimed exultingly:
"I say, Guardy, you can 'pay' me any time at your leisure, and I'll give
you a receipt in full."
Then, I am sorry to say, making a hideous grimace, she turned to fly;
but the squire jumped from his seat--overturning the bishop and Mrs.
Senator Long in his violent haste--and shouting, "Stop her! stop her!"
rushed after her from the room.
But he was too late, and she leaped upon Mignonne's back and was off.
Waving her hat in the air in a defiant "hurra!" she dashed down the road
and disappeared.
Amazement and rage were struggling in the breast of the squire. Doubting
whether it was all a delusion, he rushed up stairs to the room. The door
was still fast; and, burning with impatience, he opened it. And there he
found the window wide open, and his new suit converted into a rope,
which still dangled, as if in exultation from the window. And the
mystery was solved.
What the squire said and did there, it is useless to say. The reader
knows his remarks were anything but edifying; and even the august
presence of the overturned bishop could not prevent him from hurling a
torrent of invectives against the unfortunate Gipsy. Never had Squire
Erliston been so angry in his life. Inwardly vowing that she should
repent what she had done, the squire "bided his time"--little dreaming
how bitterly he was destined to repent that vow.