GIPSY'S RETURN TO SUNSET HALL.
"This maiden's sparkling eyes
Are pretty and all that, sir;
But then her little tongue
Is quite too full of chat, sir."--MOORE.
The effect of Archie's announcement on our party may be imagined. Lizzie
uttered a stifled shriek and fell back in her seat; the squire's eyes
protruded until they seemed ready to burst from their sockets; Louis
gazed like one thunderstruck, and caught hold of Archie, who seemed
inclined to leap on the stage in search of his little lady-love.
"Let me go into the green-room--let us go before she leaves," cried
Archie, struggling to free himself from the grasp of Louis.
The crowd were now dispersing; and the squire and his party arose and
were borne along by the throng, headed by Archie, whose frantic
exertions--as he dug his elbows right and left, to make a passage, quite
regardless of feelings and ribs--soon brought them to the outer air; and
ten minutes later--the squire never could tell how--found them in the
green-room, among painted actresses and slip-shod, shabby-looking
actors.
Archie's eyes danced over the assembled company, who looked rather
surprised, not to say indignant, at this sudden entrance, and rested at
last on a straight, slight, little figure, with its back toward them.
With one bound he cleared the intervening space betwixt them, and
without waiting to say "by your leave," clasped her in his arms, and
imprinted a kiss upon her cheek.
"Dear me, Archie, is that you? Take care! you're mussing my new dress
dreadfully!" was the astoundingly cool salutation, in the well-known
tones of our little Gipsy.
"Oh, Gipsy, how _could_ you do it? Oh, Gipsy, it was _such_ a shame,"
exclaimed Archie, reproachfully.
At this moment she espied Louis advancing toward her, and accosted him
with:
"How d'ye do, Louis?--how's Celeste and Minnette, and Mignonne, and all
the rest? Pretty well, eh?"
"Gipsy! Gipsy! what a way to talk after our long parting," said Louis,
almost provoked by her indifference. "You don't know how we all grieved
for you. Poor Mrs. Gower has become quite a skeleton crying for her
'monkey.'"
"Oh, poor, dear aunty! that's too bad now. But here comes Guardy and
Lizzie. I don't think Guardy was breaking his heart about me anyway! He
looks in capital condition yet."
At this moment the squire came over with Lizzie leaning on his arm.
"Hallo! Guardy, how are you? How did you like the opera?" exclaimed
Gipsy, in the same tone she would have used had she parted from him an
hour before.
"Oh, Gipsy! you little wretch you! I never thought it would come to
this," groaned the squire.
"No, you thought I wasn't clever enough! Just see how easy it is to be
deceived! Didn't I dance beautifully, though, and ain't I credit to you
now? I'll leave it to Archie here. Aunt Lizzie, I'll speak to you as
soon as I get time. Here comes old Barnes, the manager, to know what's
the matter."
"Oh, Gipsy, you'll come home with us, my love, you really must,"
exclaimed Lizzie.
"Couldn't, aunty, by no manner of means," replied Gipsy, shaking her
head.
"But I'll be shot if you _don't_, though," shouted the squire, "so no
more about it. Do you think I'm going to let a ward of _mine_ go with a
gang of strolling players any longer?"
"I'm no ward of yours, Squire Erliston; I'm my own mistress, thanks be
to goodness, free and independent, and so I mean to stay," exclaimed
Gipsy, with sparkling eyes.
"But, oh, my dear! my _dear_ Gipsy, do come home with us to-night,"
pleaded Lizzie, taking her hand.
"You will, Gipsy, just for to-night," coaxed Louis. And: "Ah, Gipsy,
_won't_ you now?" pleaded Archie, looking up in her saucy little face,
with something very like tears shining in his usually merry blue eyes.
"Well--maybe--just for to-night," said Gipsy, slowly yielding; "but
mind, I must go back to-morrow."
"And may I be kicked to death by grasshoppers, if ever I _let_ you go
back," muttered the squire to himself.
"Here comes the manager, Mr. Barnes," said Gipsy, raising her voice;
"these are my friends, and I am going home with them to-night."
"You'll be back to-morrow in time for the rehearsal" inquired Mr.
Barnes, in no very pleased tone of voice.
"Oh, yes, to be sure," said Gipsy, as she ran off to get her hat and
cloak.
"_We'll see about that!_" said the squire, inwardly, with a knowing nod.
Gipsy soon made her appearance. A cab was in waiting, and the whole
party were soon on their way to the hotel.
"And now, tell us all your adventures since the night you eloped from
Sunset Hall," said Louis, as they drove along.
"By and by. Tell me first all that has happened at St. Mark's since I
left--all about Celeste, and the rest of my friends."
So Louis related all that had transpired since her departure--softening,
as much as he could, the outrageous conduct of Minnette.
"Poor Celeste!" exclaimed Gipsy, with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes.
"Oh, don't I wish I'd only been there to take her part! _Wouldn't_ I
have given it to Minnette--the ugly old thing!--beg pardon, Archie, for
calling your cousin names."
"Oh, you're welcome to call her what you please, for all I care,"
replied Archie, in a nonchalant tone. "I'm not dying about her."
"There's no love lost, I think," said Louis, laughing.
By this time they had reached the hotel. Lizzie took Gipsy to her room
to brush her hair and arrange her dress, and then led her to the parlor,
where the trio were waiting them.
"And now for your story!" exclaimed Archie, condescendingly pushing a
stool toward Gipsy with his foot.
"Well, it's not much to tell," said Gipsy. "After leaving _you_, Guardy,
that night, in an excessively amiable frame of mind, I went up to my
room and sat down to deliberate whether I'd set fire to the house and
burn you all in your beds, or take a razor and cut _your_ windpipe, by
way of letting in a little hint to be more polite to me in future."
"Good Lord! I just thought so!" ejaculated the horrified squire.
"Finally, Guardy, I came to the conclusion that I would do neither. Both
were unpleasant jobs--at least they would have been unpleasant to you,
whatever they might have been to me, and would have taken too much time.
So I concluded to let you burden the earth a little longer, and quote
Solomon for the edification of the world generally, and in the meantime
to make myself as scarce as possible; for I'd no idea of staying to be
knocked about like an old dishcloth. So I got up, took my last supply of
pocket-money, stole down to the stables, mounted Mignonne, and dashed
off like the wind. Poor Mignonne! I rather think I astonished him that
night, and we were both pretty well blown by the time we reached
Brande's Tavern.
"There I took breakfast, left Mignonne--much against my will--jumped
into the mail-coach, and started for the city. Arrived there, I was for
awhile rather at a loss in what direction to turn my talents. My
predominant idea, however, was to don pantaloons and go to sea. Being
determined to see the lions, while I staid, I went one night to the
play, saw a little girl dancing, and--Eureka! I had discovered what I
was born for at last! '_Couldn't_ I beat that?' says I to myself. And
so, when I went home, I just got up before the looking-glass, stood on
one toe, and stuck the other leg straight out, as she had done, cut a
few pigeon-wings, turned a somerset or two, and came to the conclusion
that if I didn't become a _danseuse_ forthwith, it would be the greatest
loss this world ever sustained--the fall of Jerusalem not excepted. To a
young lady of my genius it was no very difficult thing to accomplish. I
went to see Old Barnes, who politely declined my services. But I wasn't
going 'to give it up so, Mr. Brown,' and, like the widow in the
Scripture, I gave him no peace, night or day, until he accepted my
services. Well, after that all was plain sailing enough. Maybe I didn't
astonish the world by the rapidity with which my continuations went up
and down. It was while there I wrote that letter of consolation to Aunty
Gower, by way of setting your minds at ease. Then we went to Washington,
then to New York, and everywhere I 'won golden opinions from all sorts
of people,' as Shakespeare, or Solomon, or some of them old fellows
says. I always kept a bright lookout for you all, for I had a sort of
presentiment I'd stumble against you some day. So I wasn't much
surprised, but a good pleased, when I saw Guardy's dear old head
protruding, like a huge overboiled beet, from one of the boxes to-night.
And so--_Finis_!"
"Gipsy," exclaimed Archie, "you're a regular specimen of Young America!
You deserve a leather medal, or a service of tin plate--you do, by
Jove!"
"'Pon honor, now?"
"Oh, Gipsy, my love, I'm very sorry to think you could have degraded
yourself in such a way!" said Lizzie, with a shockingly shocked
expression of countenance.
"Degraded, Aunt Lizzie!" exclaimed Gipsy, indignantly. "I'd like to know
whether it's more degrading to earn one's living, free and merry, as a
respectable, 'sponsible, danceable dancer, as Totty would say, or to
stay depending on any one, to be called a beggar, and kicked about like
an old shoe, if you didn't do everything a snappish old crab of an old
gentleman took into his absurd old head. I never was made to obey any
one--and what's more, I won't neither. There, now!"
"Take care, Gipsy; don't make any rash promises," said Archie. "You've
got to promise to 'love, honor, and obey' _me_, one of these days."
"Never-r-r! Obey _you_, indeed! Don't you wish I may do it?"
"Well, but, my love," said Lizzie, returning to the charge, "though it
is too late to repair what you have done, you must be a dancing-girl no
longer. You must return home with us to Sunset Hall."
"Return to Sunset Hall! Likely I'll go there to be abused again! Not I,
indeed, Aunt Lizzie; much obliged to you, at the same time, for the
offer."
"And I vow, Miss Flyaway, you _shall_ go with us--there!"
"And I vow, Guardy, I _sha'n't_ go with you--there!"
"I'll go to law, and _compel_ you to come. I'm your rightful guardian!"
said the squire, in rising wrath.
"Rightful fiddlesticks! I'm no ward of yours; I'm Aunty Gower's niece;
and the law's got nothing to do with me," replied Gipsy, with an
audacious snap of her fingers; for neither Gipsy nor the boys knew how
she was found on the beach.
"And is that all the thanks you give me for offering to plague myself
with you, you ungrateful little varmint?"
"I'm _not_ ungrateful, Squire Erliston!" flashed Gipsy--a streak of
fiery red darting across her dark face. "I'm _not_ ungrateful; but I
_won't_ be a slave to come at your beck; I _won't_ be called a beggar--a
pauper; I _won't_ be told the workhouse is my rightful home; I _won't_
be struck like a cur, and then kiss the hand that strikes me. No! I'm
not ungrateful; but, though I'm only a little girl, I _won't_ be
insulted and abused for nothing. I can earn my own living, free and
happy, without whining for any one's favor, thank Heaven!"
Her little form seemed to tower upward with the consciousness of inward
power, her eyes filled, blazed, and dilated, and her dark cheek
crimsoned with proud defiance.
The squire forgot his anger as he gazed in admiration on the
high-spirited little creature standing before him, as haughty as a
little empress. Stretching out his arms, he caught her, and seated her
on his knee--stroking her short, dancing curls, as he said, in the
playful tone one might use to a spoiled baby:
"And can't my little monkey make allowance for an old man's words? You
know you were very naughty and mischievous that day, and I had cause to
be angry with you; and if I said harsh things, it was all for your good,
you know."
"All for my good!--such stuff! I wish you'd put me down. I'm a young
lady, I'd have you to know; and I ain't going to be used like a baby,
dandled up and down without any regard for my dignity!" said Gipsy, with
so indignant an expression of countenance, that Archie--who, as I before
mentioned, was blessed with a keen sense of the ludicrous--fell back,
roaring with laughter.
"Now, Gipsy, my love, do be reasonable and return home with us," said
Lizzie, impatiently.
"I won't, then--there!" said Gipsy, rather sullenly.
But the tears rushed into Lizzie's eyes--for she really was very fond of
the eccentric elf--and in a moment Gipsy was off the squire's knee, and
her arms round Lizzie's neck.
"Why, aunty, did I make you cry? Oh, I'm so sorry! Please don't cry,
dear, _dear_ aunty."
"Oh, Gipsy, it's so selfish of you not to return with us, when we are so
lonesome at home without you," said Lizzie, fairly sobbing.
"Yes; and poor Mrs. Gower will break her heart when she hears about
it--I know she will," said Louis, in a lachrymose tone.
"And I'll break mine--I know I will!" added Archie, rubbing his knuckles
into his eyes, and with some difficulty squeezing out a tear.
"And I'll blow my stupid old brains out; and _after that_, I'll break my
heart, too," chimed in the squire, in a very melancholy tone of voice.
"Well! la me! you'll have rather a smashing time of it if you all break
your hearts. What'll you do with the pieces, Guardy?--sell them for
marbles?" said Gipsy, laughing.
"There! I knew you'd relent; I said it. Oh, Gipsy, my darling, I knew
you wouldn't desert your 'Guardy' in his old age. I knew you wouldn't
let him go down to his grave like a miserable, consumptive old
tabby-cat, with no wicked little 'imp' to keep him from stagnating. Oh,
Gipsy, my dear, may Heaven bless you!"
"Bother! I haven't said I'd go. Don't jump at conclusions. Before I'd be
with you a week you'd be blowing me up sky-high."
"But, Gipsy, you know I can't live without blowing somebody up. You
ought to make allowance for an old man's temper. It runs in our family
to blow up. I had an uncle, or something, that was 'blown up' at the
battle of Bunker Hill. Then I always feel after it as amiable as a cat
when eating her kittens. 'After a storm there cometh a calm,' as Solomon
says."
"Well, maybe there's something in that," said Gipsy, thoughtfully.
"And you know, my love," said Lizzie, "that, though a little girl may be
a dancer, it's a dreadful life for a young woman--which you will be in
two or three years. No one ever respects a dancing girl; no gentleman
ever would marry you."
"Wouldn't they, though!" said Gipsy, so indignantly that Archie once
more fell back, convulsed. "If they wouldn't, somebody 'd lose the
smartest, cleverest, handsomest young lady on this terrestrial globe,
though I say it, as 'hadn't oughter.' Well, since you all are going to
commit suicide if I don't go with you, I suppose old Barnes must lose
the 'bright particular star' of his company, and I must return to St.
Mark's, to waste my sweetness on the desert air."
This resolution was greeted with enthusiastic delight by all present;
and the night was far advanced before the squire could part with his
"little vixen," and allow her to go to rest.
Old Barnes--as Gipsy called him--was highly indignant at the treatment
he had received, and, going to the hotel, began abusing Gipsy and the
squire, and everybody else generally; whereupon the squire, who never
was noted for his patience, took him by the collar, and, by a
well-applied kick, landed him in the kennel--a pleasant way of settling
disputes which he had learned while dealing with his negroes, but for
which an over-particular court made him pay pretty high damages.
Three days after, Louis and Archie bade them farewell, and entered
college; and the squire, after a pleasure-trip of a few weeks, set out
for St. Mark's.
In due course of time he arrived at that _refugium peccatorum_; and the
unbounded delight with which Gipsy was hailed can never be described by
pen of mine.
Good Mrs. Gower could scarcely believe that her darling was really
before her; and it was only when listening to the uproar that everywhere
followed the footsteps of the said darling, that she could be convinced.
As for Celeste, not knowing whether to laugh or cry with joy, she split
the difference, and did both. Even Miss Hagar's grim face relaxed as
Gipsy came flashing into their quiet cottage like a March whirlwind,
throwing everything into such "admired disorder," that it generally took
the quiet little housekeeper, Celeste, half a day to set things to
rights afterward.
And now it began to be time to think of completing the education of the
two young girls. Minnette had left for school before the return of
Gipsy, and it became necessary to send them likewise. Loath as the
squire was to part with his pet, he felt he must do it, and urged Miss
Hagar to allow Celeste to accompany her.
"Gipsy will defend her from the malice of Minnette, and the two girls
will be company for each other," said the old man to the spinster.
"Girls _must_ know how to chatter French, and bang on a piano, and make
worsted cats and dogs, and all _such_! So let little Snowdrop, here, go
with my monkey, and I'll foot the bill."
Miss Hagar consented; and a month after found our little rustic
lasses--our fair "Star of the Valley" and our mountain fairy, moving in
the new world of boarding-school.