THE MOONLIGHT FLITTING.
"Oh, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd;
She was a vixen when she went to school,
And though she is but little, she is fierce."
The moonlight was falling brightly on the lawn, and shimmering like
silver sheen on the leaves of the horse-chestnuts, as Gipsy rode home.
The company had just dispersed, and the squire was about to retire, when
the clatter of horse's hoofs on the graveled path made him start up and
hasten out to the porch. And there he beheld the audacious Gipsy riding
fearlessly toward him, shouting at the top of her lungs some wild
chorus, of which he only caught the words:
"You must place in my coffin a bottle of red,
And say a good fellow is gone."
"If I don't pay her off before I sleep to-night!" muttered the squire,
between his clenched teeth. "I'll put an end to her pranks, or know for
why."
Gipsy leaped lightly from her horse, and resigning him to Jupiter, ran
up the steps, and encountered the purple face and blazing eyes of her
angry guardian.
"Good-evening, Guardy!" was her salute. "Nice night!"
"Stop!" said the squire, catching her by the arm as she was about to run
past--"stop! I've an account to settle with you, my lady!"
"Oh, any time at your convenience, Squire Erliston; I'll not be hard on
you."
"Silence, Miss Impertinence! You have the impudence of Satan to face me
after what you have done!"
"Now, Guardy, don't be unreasonable, but look at the matter in its
proper light. All fashionable people paint."
"Silence!" exclaimed the squire, in a voice hoarse with rage. "Silence!
before I brain you, you little villain! You have made me the
laughing-stock of the country for miles around. I can never dare to show
my face after what has occurred, without being jeered and mocked at. And
all through you--the creature of my bounty--the miserable little wretch
who would have been a common street-beggar if I had not clothed, and
fed, and educated you!--through you, you brazen-faced, good-for-nothing
little pauper, whom I would have kicked out long ago to the workhouse
where you belong, if I had not feared the opinion of the world. Begone
from my sight, before I am tempted to brain you!"
His face was perfectly livid with the storm of passion into which he had
wrought himself. As he ceased, he raised his hand and brutally struck
her a blow that sent her reeling across the room.
Then all the demon in her fiery nature was aroused. With the shriek of a
wounded panther, she leaped toward him, with clenched hands, blazing
eyes, hard-ground teeth, ghastly face, convulsed brow, and eyes that
fairly scintillated sparks of fire. She looked a perfect little fiend,
as she glared upon him, quivering in every nerve with frenzied passion.
The old sinner drew back appalled, frightened into calmness by that
dark, fierce face. For a moment he expected she would spring at his
throat like a tigress and strangle him. But, with a long, wild cry, she
clasped her hands above her head, and fled swiftly up-stairs,
disappearing like some elfin sprite in the darkness beyond.
"Good Lord!" muttered the squire, wiping the drops of terror off his
face. "What a perfect little devil! Did ever any one see such a look on
a human face before! It's my opinion she's allied to Old Nick, and will
carry me off some night in a brimstone of cloud and fire--I mean a fire
of cloud and brimstone. Good gracious! I'm palpitating like a hysterical
girl. I never got such a fright in my life. I vow it's a danger to go to
bed with that desperate little limb in the house. I shouldn't wonder if
she set the place on fire about our ears and burned us all in our beds,
or cut our throats, or something. She looked wild and crazy enough to do
it. Well, I reckon, I'll be more careful how I chastise her for the
future, that's certain."
So saying, the squire took his night-lamp and went off to bed, taking
the precaution to double lock his door, lest the "little imp" should
take it into her head to carry him off bodily during the night.
No such catastrophe occurred, however, and when the squire went down to
breakfast, he found everything going on as usual. Lizzie lay on a
lounge, immersed in the pages of a novel, and Louis sat by the window
busily sketching, as was his custom.
"I say, Lizzie, have you seen anything of Gipsy this morning?" he
inquired, as he entered.
"No, papa."
"I'd rather think she rode off before any of us were up this morning,"
said Louis, raising his head. "Mignonne is not in the stable."
This was nothing unusual, so without waiting for her, the family sat
down to breakfast.
But half an hour after, Totty came running in alarm to Mrs. Gower, to
say Miss Gipsy's bed had not been slept in all night. This fact was
self-evident; and the worthy housekeeper sought out the squire to learn
whether Gipsy had returned home the night before.
"Yes, yes, to be sure she did. 'Night brings home all stragglers,' as
Solomon says. Why?"
"Because she has not slept in her bed the livelong night."
"No!" shouted the squire, springing from his seat, as if some one had
speared him. "Lord bless me! where can she have gone?"
"Ah, Squire Erliston, you do not think anything has happened to the dear
child, do you?" said Mrs. Gower, clasping her hands.
"Fiddle-de-dee, woman, of course not. She's gone back to Deep Dale, I'll
lay a wager. Oh, here comes young Rivers, now we'll know."
"Archie, my dear," said Mrs. Gower, as that young gentleman entered the
room, "did Gipsy go back to Deep Dale last night?"
"Go back! Why, of course she didn't."
"Oh, Squire Erliston, you hear that. Oh, where can that crazy creature
have gone?" exclaimed Mrs. Gower, twisting her fingers in distress.
"Why, what's wrong? Where is Gipsy?" asked Archie, in surprise.
"Oh, I don't know. She came home late last night, and must have gone
away somewhere, for she never went to bed at all. Oh, I am sure she has
been killed, or drowned, or shot, or something! I always knew it would
happen," and Mrs. Gower fairly began to cry.
"Knew what would happen?" said Archie, perplexed and alarmed.
"Something or other. I always said it; and now my words have come true,"
replied Mrs. Gower sobbing.
"Mrs. Gower, ma'am, allow me to tell you, you're a fool!" broke out the
squire. "Most likely she didn't feel sleepy, and rode off before you
were out of your bed this morning, just like the young minx. Ring the
bell, and we'll see what time she started."
Archie obeyed, and Totty made her appearance.
"Tott," said the master, "be off with you, and send Jupiter here
immediately."
Totty ducked her wooly head by way of reply, as she ran off, and
presently Jupiter made his appearance in evident trouble.
"Jupe, you black rascal, what time did Gipsy ride off this morning?"
asked the squire.
"Please, mas'r, it warn't dis mornin' she rid off," said Jupiter,
holding the door ajar, in order that he might retreat if his master grew
violent.
"What do you mean, sir?" roared his master, in rising terror.
"'Deed, mas'r, I couldn't stop the young wixen--de young lady, I
mean--she don't mind me, no how, she don't."
"Nor anybody else, for that matter," groaned the squire, inwardly.
"You see, mas'r, arter she come home, I tuk Minnon inter de stable, and
'gan rubbin' him down, 'caze he was all in a foam she done rid him so
hard. Well, 'bout half an hour arter, as I was goin' to bed, I hears a
noise in de yard, an' when I looks out, dar was Miss Gipsy takin' de
horse out again. 'Deed she was, mas'r, an' 'fore I could get out she war
gone--'twan't no fault of mine."
"Oh, Gipsy! Gipsy!" shouted the squire, jumping to his legs and stamping
up and down the floor in an agony of remorse and sorrow. "And I've
driven you from home, old monster that I am! I'm a brute! an alligator!
a crocodile! a wretched old wretch! a miserable, forsaken old sinner!
and I'll knock down any man that dare say to the contrary! Oh, Gipsy, my
dear little plague! where are you now? My darling little wild eaglet!
friendless in the wide world!" Here catching sight of Jupiter still
standing in the doorway, he rushed upon him and shook him until the
unfortunate darkey's jaws chattered like a pair of castanets. "As for
you, you black rascal! I have a good mind to break every bone in your
worthless skin. Why didn't you wake me up, sir, when you saw her going,
eh? Answer me that!"
"Mas'r--ma--ma--mas'r," stuttered poor Jupiter, half strangled, "'deed
de Lord knows I was 'fraid to 'sturb ye. Ma--ma--ma--mas'r----"
"Silence, sir! Up with you and mount--let every man, woman, and child in
the place be off in search of her. And Mrs. Gower, ma'am, do you stop
snuffling there. 'No use crying for spilled milk,' as Solomon says.
We'll have her home and soundly thrashed before night, or my name's not
Magnus Theodoric Erliston. Ha! there! Louis! Archie! the rest of you,
mount and off! And Mrs. Gower, ma'am, do you run out and saddle my
horse, and bring him round while I draw on my boots."
"Squire Erliston," sobbed the poor old lady, "you know very well I can't
saddle your horse. Oh, Gipsy! Gipsy!" she added, with a fresh burst of
tears.
"Well, fly and tell some of the rest, then. Women are such worthless
creatures--good for nothing but crying. There they go, with Louis and
young Rivers at their head, to scour the country. 'In the days when we
went gipsying,' as Solomon says. I do believe that little minx will be
the death of me yet--I know she will! I'm losing flesh; I'm losing
temper; I'm losing cash! I'm losing rest, and losing patience every day.
She'll bring my gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, as Solomon says, only
I happen to wear a wig, Ah! there's my horse. Now for it! Gipsy Gower,
you little torment, you, _won't_ I tell you a piece of my mind when I
catch you!"
But the squire was destined not to catch her; for, though they continued
the search for the lost one until night, no trace of her could be found.
All that could be learned of her was from an innkeeper in a neighboring
town, some twenty miles distant. He said a young girl answering the
description given of Gipsy had arrived there about daylight, and, after
taking a hasty breakfast, had left her horse--which was utterly
exhausted by the pace with which she had ridden him--and started in the
mail coach for the city.
Mignonne was led home, and as it was too late to go farther that day the
tired horsemen returned, silent and dispirited, homeward. The next day
the search was renewed, and the driver of the mail-coach questioned
concerning the little fugitive. He could throw but little light on the
subject; she accompanied him as far as the city, where she paid her fare
and left him. And that was all he knew.
Placards were posted up, and rewards offered; the police were put upon
her track; but all in vain. And at last all hope was given up, and the
lost child was resigned to her fate.
One day, about three weeks after her flight, the postman brought a
letter for Mrs. Gower. One glance at the superscription, and with a cry
of joy she tore it open, for it was in the light, careless hand of
Gipsy. It ran as follows:
"MY DEAR, DARLING AUNTY:--I suppose you have had great times up
at Sunset Hall since I made a moonlight flitting of it. I wish I
had been there to see the fun. I suppose Guardy stamped and
roared, and blew up Jupiter, and blessed _me_--after his old
style. Well, you know, aunty, I just couldn't help it. Guardy was
getting so unbearable there was no standing him, and so I'm going
to take Gipsy Gower under my own especial patronage, and make a
good girl of her. Don't be angry, now, aunty, because I'll take
precious good care of myself--see if I don't. Tell Guardy not to
make a fuss, for fear it might bring on the gout, and tell him
not to keep searching for me, for if he hunts till he's black in
the face he won't find me. Remember me to Aunt Liz, and Louis,
and Celeste, and--and _Archie_. Tell Archie not to fall in love
with anybody else; if he does he may look out for a squall from
your own little GIPSY."
This characteristic letter, instead of comforting the family, plunged
them into still deeper trouble on her account. Mrs. Gower wept for her
darling unceasingly, and would not be comforted; Lizzie sighed and
yawned, and lay on her lounge from morning till night, looking drearier
than ever; and the servants went in silence and sadness about their
daily business, heaving a sigh and shedding a tear over every memento
that recalled poor Gipsy. Now that she was gone they found how dearly
they loved her, in spite of all the scrapes and troubles she had ever
cost them.
A dull, heavy, stagnant silence hung over the mansion from morning till
night. There was no more banging of doors, and flying in and out, and up
and down stairs, and scolding, and shouting, and singing all in one
burst, now. The squire was blue-molding--fairly "running to seed," as he
mournfully expressed it--for want of his little torment.
No one missed the merry little elf more than the lusty old squire, who
sighed like a furnace, and sat undisturbed in his own arm-chair from one
week's end to the other. Sometimes Louis would bring over Celeste, who
had nearly wept her gentle eyes out for the loss of her friend, to
comfort him, and the fair, loving little creature would nestle on a
stool at his feet and lay her golden head in his lap, and go to sleep.
And the squire would caress her fair, silken curls with his great, rough
hands, and pat her white, dimpling shoulders, and turn away with a half
groan; for she was not Gipsy!
As for poor Archie, he took to wandering in the woods and shooting
unoffending birds and rabbits, because it was Gipsy's favorite sport,
and looked as doleful as though he had lost every friend in the world.
"Fall in love with any one else," indeed! Master Archie scorned the
idea, and began to have sundry visions of joining the monks of La Trappe
as soon as he grew old enough. This and his other threats of going to
sea, of enlisting, of killing somebody, by way of relieving his spirits,
kept poor Celeste trembling with fear for him from morning till night.
And in her own gentle way she would put her arms round his neck and cry
on his shoulder, and beg of him not to say such naughty things, for that
Gipsy would come back yet--she _knew_ that she would.
But Minnette, who didn't care a straw whether Gipsy ever came back or
not, would laugh her short, deriding laugh, and advise him to become a
Sister of Charity at once. And Celeste said _she_ would be one when she
grew up, and then she would be always near to comfort him. And
Minnette's taunts always sent poor Archie off to the woods in a more
heart-broken state of mind than ever before.