CHAPTER XXII.

FETTERS FOR THE EAGLET.

"I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young--

I'm o'er young to marry yet.

I'm o'er young; 'twould be a sin

To take me from my mammy yet."--BURNS.

"Gipsy, my dear, come here and sit beside me. I have something very

important to say to you," said the squire, as, half an hour later, he

caught sight of Gipsy, running, singing, down stairs.

"Why, Guardy, what's the matter? You look as solemn as a coffin," said

Gipsy, coming in and sitting down on a stool at his side.

"Gipsy, marriage is a solemn subject."

"Shockingly solemn, Guardy. And who are you thinking of marrying?"

"I'm thinking of marrying you----"

"Marrying _me_? Oh, Jerusalem! Well, if aunty consents, I'm willing. La!

won't it be fun? Just fancy Louis calling me grandmother! Ha, ha!

"Hush, you chatterbox--don't interrupt me. As I was saying, I have been

thinking of marrying you to some discreet, sensible man. You are too

wild and giddy, and you must get married and settle down."

"Just so, Guardy; I've been thinking of it myself."

"Now, there's Doctor Wiseman, for instance. He'd be an excellent husband

for you. He's a pleasant gentleman, possessing many sound, sterling

qualities, learned, and not bad looking----"

"Exactly, Guardy--useful as well as ornamental. For instance, he'd do to

put in a corn-field to scare away the crows."

"Don't be impertinent, Miss Gower! Doctor Wiseman is a serious man,

self-balanced and grave----"

"Grave! I guess so! He always reminds me of death and his scythe

whenever I see him."

"Silence, and listen to me! Now what objection could you possibly make

to Doctor Wiseman as a husband?"

"As a husband? Ha, ha, ha! Why, Guardy, you don't mean to say that that

yellow-skinned, spindle-shanked, dwarfed old ogre, with one leg in the

grave, and the other over the fence, is thinking of marrying--do you?"

"Hold your tongue, or you'll lose it, you little wretch! Doctor Wiseman

is no old ogre, but a dark-complexioned----"

"Saffron, saffron, Guardy! Tell the truth, now, and shame your master.

Isn't it saffron?"

"I'll brain you if you don't stop! A man can't get in a word edgeways

with you. Dr. Wiseman, minx, has done you the honor to propose for your

hand. I have consented, and----"

But the squire broke off suddenly, in a towering rage--for Gipsy, after

an incredulous stare, burst into a shout of laughter that made the house

ring. Pressing her hands to her sides, she laughed until the tears ran

down her cheeks; and, at last, unable to stop, she rolled off her seat

on to the floor, and tumbled over and over in a perfect convulsion.

"Oh, you little aggravation! _Will_ you stop?" cried the squire, seizing

her by the shoulder, and shaking her until she was breathless.

"Oh, Guardy, that's too good! Marry me? Oh, I declare, I'll split my

sides!" exclaimed Gipsy, going into another fit of laughter, as she

essayed in vain to rise.

"Gipsy Gower! Cease your folly for a moment, and rise up and listen to

me," said the squire, so sternly that Gipsy wiped the tears from her

eyes, and pressing her hands to her sides, resumed her seat.

"Gipsy, I do not wish you to consider me a boaster, but you know I have

done a great deal for you, brought you up, educated you, and intended

leaving you a fortune at my death----"

"Thank you, Guardy; couldn't you let me have part of it now?"

"Silence, I tell you! Gipsy, this is what I _intended_ doing; but,

child, I have become involved in debt. Mount Sunset will be taken from

me, and you, and Louis, and the rest of us will be beggars."

Up flew Gipsy's eyebrows, open flew her eyes, and down dropped her chin,

in unfeigned amazement.

"Yes," continued the squire, "you may stare, but it's true. And now,

Gipsy, since you told me you were not ungrateful--now is the time to

prove it, by saving me and all your friends from ruin."

"_I_ save you from ruin?" said Gipsy, staring with all her eyes, and

wondering if "Guardy" was wandering in his mind.

"Yes, _you_. As I told you, I am involved in debt, which it is utterly

impossible for me to pay. Now, Doctor Wiseman, who has fallen in love

with my fairy, has offered to pay my debts if you will marry him. Don't

laugh, _don't_, as I see you are going to do--this is no time for

laughter, Gipsy."

"Oh, but Guardy, that's too funny! The idea of me, a little girl of

seventeen, marrying a man of sixty--'specially such a man as Spider

Wiseman! Oh, Guardy, it's the best joke of the season!" cried Gipsy,

bursting into another immoderate fit of laughter.

"Ungrateful, hard-hearted girl!" said the squire, with tears actually in

his stormy old eyes; "this is your return for all I have done for you!

You, the only living being who can save those who have been your best

friends from being turned out of the old homestead, instead of rejoicing

in being able to do it, you only laugh at him in scorn, you--" the

squire broke down fairly here.

Never had the elf seen the usually violent old man so moved. A pang shot

through her heart for her levity; and the next moment her arms were

round his neck, and her white handkerchief wiping away the tears of

which he was ashamed.

"Dear--_dear_ Guardy, I'm so sorry! I never thought you felt so bad

about it. I'll do anything in the world to help you; I'm not

ungrateful. What do you want me to do, Guardy?"

"To save me, by marrying Doctor Wiseman, my dear."

"Oh, Guardy, oh, _Guardy_! You surely weren't serious in proposing

_that_?" exclaimed Gipsy, really astonished.

"Serious? Alas! I was never so serious before in my life. You will do

this, Gipsy?"

"Oh, Guardy! Marry _him_? Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Gipsy, with a

violent shudder.

"Then you will let us all be turned out from the old roof-tree--out into

the world to die; for, Gipsy, if the old place is taken from me, I

should break my heart through grief!"

"Oh, Guardy, it won't be so bad as that! Surely _something_ can be done?

How much do you owe?"

"More than I dare mention. Child, nothing can be done to save us unless

you consent to this marriage."

"Oh! that is too horrible even to think of. Can you not write to Louis?

I'm sure he could do something to save us."

"No, he could do nothing; and he must never know it at all. Even

supposing he could, before a letter could reach him we would be publicly

disgraced--I should be branded as a rogue, and turned out of doors to

die. No, Gipsy, unless you consent, before the week is out, to become

the bride of Doctor Wiseman, all hope will be over. And though

afterward, by some hitherto unheard-of miracle, the property should be

restored to us, I should not live to see it; for if you persist in

refusing, Gipsy, I will die by my own hand, sooner than live to be

branded like a felon. And Lizzie and Mrs. Gower, who love you so well,

how do you think they could live, knowing that all had been lost through

your ingratitude! Louis, too, your foster-brother, how will he look on

the girl whose obstinacy will make him a beggar? Consent and all will be

well, the gratitude and love of an old man will bless you through life;

_refuse_, and my death will be on your soul, haunting you through all

your cheerless, unblessed life."

With all the eloquence and passion of intense selfishness he spoke,

while each word burned into the heart and soul of his listener. She was

pacing up and down the floor, half-maddened by his words, while the word

_ingratitude_ seemed dancing in living letters of fire before her.

"Oh! what shall I do? What shall I do?" she cried, wringing her hands

wildly.

"Let me advise you; I am older and have had experience, and a claim on

your obedience. Marry Doctor Wiseman; he is, I know, somewhat older than

you, but you _need_ a man of age and wisdom. He is rich, and loves you;

and with him, conscious that you have done your duty, you will be

blessed by God, and be happy."

"Happy!" she broke in, scornfully, "and with him! Happy!"

"It is the first favor I ever asked of you, Gipsy, and I know you will

not refuse. No one must know of it, not one, save Lizzie and Mrs. Gower.

You must not breathe it to a living soul, save them."

"Guardy, there is some guilt or mystery connected with this debt. What

is it?"

"I cannot tell you now, child; when you have obeyed me, I will. Come,

Doctor Wiseman will be here for your answer to-morrow. Shall I tell him

you have consented?"

"Oh! no, no! no, no! Good heavens!" she cried, shudderingly.

"Gipsy! Gipsy! consent. I implore you, by all you hold dear on earth,

and sacred in heaven, to consent!" he said, with wild vehemence.

"Oh! I cannot! I cannot! I _cannot_! Oh, Guardy, do not urge me to this

living death," she cried passionately.

"Then you can see me die, child. This, then, is your gratitude!" he

said, bitterly.

"Oh, Guardy, you will not die! I will work for you--yes, I will toil

night and day, and work my fingers to the bone, if need be. I can work

more than you would think."

"It would be useless, worse than useless. I should not live to make you

work for me. Refuse, if you will, and go through life with the death of

a fellow-creature on your soul."

"Oh! I wish I had never been born," said Gipsy, wringing her pale

fingers in anguish.

"Consent! consent! Gipsy, for my sake! For the sake of the old man who

loves you!"

She did not reply; she was pacing up and down the room like one

half-crazed, with wild, excited eyes, and flushed cheeks.

"You do not speak. 'Silence gives consent,' as Solomon says," said the

squire, the ruling habit still "strong in death."

"Let me think! You must give me time, Guardy! I will go to my room now,

and to-morrow you shall have my answer."

"Go, then; I know it will be favorable. I dare not think otherwise.

To-morrow morning I will know."

"Yes, to-morrow," said Gipsy, as she left the room and fled wildly up

stairs.

"To-morrow," said the old sinner, looking after her. "And what will that

answer be? 'Who can tell what a day may bring forth?' as Solomon says."

CHAPTER XXII.

THE BIRD CAGED.

"Lay on him the curse of a withered heart,

The curse of a sleepless eye;

Till he wish and pray that his life would part,

Nor yet find leave to die."--SCOTT.

Morning came. The squire sat in the breakfast parlor, impatiently

waiting for the coming of Gipsy. He waited in vain. The moments flew on;

still she came not.

Losing patience at last, he caught the bell-rope and rang a furious

peal. Five minutes after the black face and woolly head of Totty

appeared in the doorway.

"Totty, where's your young mistress?"

"Here!" answered the voice of Gipsy herself, as she stood, bright and

smiling, behind Totty.

Somehow, that smile alarmed the old man, and he began trembling for the

decision he had so anxiously been expecting.

"Well, come in. Clear out, Totty. Now, Gipsy, your decision."

"Now, Guardy, wait until after breakfast. How is any one to form an

opinion on an empty stomach, I'd like to know? There, don't get into a

fidget about it, as I see you're going to do, because it's no use."

"But, Gipsy, tell me--will it be favorable?"

"That depends upon circumstances. If I have a good appetite for my

breakfast I may probably be in good-humor enough to say yes to

everything you propose; if not, I tremble for you, Guardy. Visions of

blunt pen-knives and bulletless pistols flash in 'awful array' before my

mind's eye. Shall I ring the bell for Aunty Gower?"

"I suppose so," growled the old man; "you are as contrary as Balaam's

ass."

"Guardy, look out! Don't compare me to any of your ancestors."

At this moment Mrs. Gower entered, followed by Lizzie, now an invalid,

wrapped up in numberless shawls, until she resembled a mummy.

The squire had informed them both, the night before, how matters stood;

and they glanced anxiously at Gipsy, as they entered, to read, if

possible, her decision in her countenance. Nothing could they guess from

that little dark, sparkling face, as vivacious and merry as ever.

When breakfast was over Mrs. Gower and Mrs. Oranmore quitted the room,

leaving Gipsy alone with the squire.

"Now, Gipsy, now," he exclaimed, impatiently.

"Guardy," said Gipsy, earnestly, "all last night I lay awake, trying to

find out where my path of duty lay; and, Guardy, I have come to the

conclusion that I cannot add to your sin, if you have committed one, by

a still greater crime. I cannot perjure myself, before God's holy altar,

even to save you. Guardy, I always loathed and detested this man--this

Dr. Wiseman; and now I would sooner die by slow torture than be his

wife. Your threat of suicide I know you will not fulfill--'twas but idle

words. But even had you been serious, it would be all the same; for

sooner than marry that man I would plunge a dagger into my own heart

and let out my life's blood. I do not speak hastily, for I have done

that which I seldom do--thought before I spoke. If we really, as you

say, become poor, I am willing to leave my wild, free life, my horses,

hounds, and the 'merry greenwood,' to become a toiling kitchen brownie

for your sake. Do not interrupt me, Guardy; nothing you can say can

change my purpose. I am not ungrateful, but I cannot commit a crime in

the face of high heaven, even for the sake of those I love best. Tell my

decision to Dr. Wiseman. And now, Guardy, this subject must be forever

dropped between us, for you have heard my ultimatum."

And without waiting for the words that were ready to burst forth, she

arose, bent her graceful little head, and walked out of the room.

As she went up-stairs, on her way to her own room, she passed Lizzie's

chamber. Mrs. Oranmore caught sight of her through the half-opened door,

and called her.

"Gipsy, my love, come in here."

Gipsy went in. It was a pleasant, cheerful room, with bright pictures on

the walls, and rich crimson damask hangings in the window. Lizzie

Oranmore, as she lies on her lounge, enveloped in a large, soft shawl,

is not much like the Lizzie, the bright little coquette, we once knew. A

pale, faded creature she is now, with sallow cheeks, and thin, pinched

face.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Oranmore, anxiously, "papa has mentioned this

shocking affair to me. What has been your answer to Dr. Wiseman's

proposal?"

"Oh, aunty, what could it be but _no_? You didn't suppose I'd marry that

ugly old daddy-long-legs, did you? Why, aunty, when I get married--which

I never will if I can help it--for I would be ever free--it must be to

a lord, duke, or a Sir Harry, or something above the common. Just fancy

such a little bit of a thing like me being tied for life to a detestable

old Bluebeard like Spider. Not I, indeed!" said the elf, as she danced

around the room and gayly sang:

"An old man, an old man, will never do for me,

For May and December can never agree."

"But Gipsy, my dear, do you not know that we are to be turned out, if

you refuse?" said Lizzie, in blank dismay.

"Well, let us be turned out, then. I will be turned out, but I won't

marry that old death's-head. I'm young and smart, and able to earn my

own living, thank goodness!"

"Oh, ungrateful girl, will you see me die? For, Gipsy, if I am deprived

now, in my illness, of the comforts to which I have always been

accustomed, I shall die."

"Oh, no, you won't, aunty. I don't think that things are as bad as

Guardy makes them appear; and, even if they were, Dr. Wiseman, old

wretch as he is, would let you remain."

"No, he would not, child; you don't know the revengeful disposition of

that man. Oh, Gipsy, by the memory of all we have done for you, I

beseech you to consent!"

"Aunty, aunty, I cannot; it is too dreadful even to think about. Oh,

aunty, I cannot tell you how I loathe, abhor, and detest that hideous

old sinner!"

"Gipsy, that is wrong--that is sinful. Dr. Wiseman is a highly

respectable gentleman--rather old for you, it is true--but of what

difference is a few years? He is rich, and loves you well enough to

gratify your every wish. What more would you have?"

"_Happiness_, aunty. I should be utterly miserable with him."

"Nonsense, child, you only think so. It is not as if you were older, and

loved somebody else. People often marry those they don't care about, and

grow quite fond of them after a time. Now, I shouldn't be surprised if

you grew quite fond of Dr. Wiseman by and by."

Gipsy laughed her own merry laugh again as she heard Lizzie's words.

"Oh, Gipsy, you thoughtless creature! is this your answer to my

petition?" said Lizzie, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. "Leave me,

then. I will not long survive your ingratitude; but, mark me, your name

will become a by-word, far and near, and descend to posterity branded

with the disgrace of your ungrateful conduct. Go--leave me! Why should

you stay to witness the misery you have caused?"

Poor Gipsy! how these reproaches stung her. She started to her feet, and

began pacing the floor rapidly, crying wildly:

"Oh, Heaven help me! I know not what to do! I wish I were dead, sooner

than be branded thus as an ingrate!"

Lizzie's sobs alone broke the stillness of the room. At last, unable to

endure them longer, she rushed out and sought refuge in her own chamber.

As she entered she saw Mrs. Gower seated by the window--a look of

trouble and sadness on her usually happy, good-natured face.

"Oh! aunty, what _shall_ I do? Oh! aunty, I am going crazy, I think!"

cried Gipsy, distressedly, half maddened by the sight of Lizzie's tears.

"My dear, it is very plain what you must do. You must marry Dr.

Wiseman," said Mrs. Gower, gravely.

"Oh! aunty, have you turned against me, too? Then I have no friend in

the wide world! Oh! I wish--I _wish_ I had never been born!"

"My love, don't talk in that way; it is not only very foolish, but very

sinful. Dr. Wiseman is certainly not the man I would wish to see you

married to; but, you perceive, there is no alternative. Gipsy, I am

getting old, so is the squire; Mrs. Oranmore is ill, and I do not think

she will live long. Will you, therefore, allow the old man and

woman--who love you above all human beings--and a poor, weak invalid, to

be turned upon the charity of the cold world to die? Gipsy, you know if

we could save you from misery, we would coin our very hearts' blood to

do it."

"And, oh, aunt! could there be greater misery for me than that to which

you are urging me?"

"You talk like the thoughtless girl you are, Gipsy. How often, for

wealth or social position merely, or to raise their friends from want,

do young girls marry old men! Yet, _you_ refuse to save us from worse

than want, from disgrace and death--yes, _death_! I know what I am

saying, Gipsy--you obstinately refuse. Gipsy, my child, for my sake do

not become such a monster of ingratitude, but consent."

"Oh, aunty! leave me. I feel as if I were going mad! Every one in the

world seems to have turned against me--even _you_! Oh, aunty, dear, good

aunty! don't talk to me any more; my very brain seems on fire."

"Yes; your cheeks are burning, and your eyes are like fire--you are ill

and feverish, my poor little fairy. Lie down, and let me bathe your

head."

"No, no, aunty, don't mind. Oh! what matter is it whether I am ill or

not? If it wasn't for you, and Guardy, and all the rest, I feel as if I

should like to lie down and die!"

"My own little darling, you must not talk of dying; every one has

trouble in this world, and you cannot expect to escape!"

"Yes; I know, I know! Hitherto, life has been to me a fairy dream; and

now this terrible awakening to reality! Life seemed to me one long,

golden summer day; and now--and now----"

"You are excited, love; lie down, and try to sleep--you talk too much."

"Yes, I know; I always did talk too much; but I do not think I will ever

talk much again. Oh, aunty! I have heard of the heart-ache, but I never

knew what it was before!"

"My love, you must not feel this so deeply. How wild your eyes are! and

your hands are burning hot! Do lie down, and try to rest."

"Rest! rest! Shall I ever find rest again?"

"Of course you will, my dear. Now what shall I tell the squire is your

decision about this? I promised him to talk to you about it."

"Oh, aunty, don't--_don't_! Leave me alone, and let me think--I cannot

talk to you now!"

"Shall I bring you up ice for your head, my dear?"

"No, no; you have already brought ice for my heart, aunty--that is

enough."

"You talk wildly, love; I am afraid your mind is disordered."

"Don't mind my talk, dear aunty, I always was a crazy, elfish

changeling, without a heart, you know. Nobody minds what I say. Only

leave me now; I will be better by and by."

With a sigh Mrs. Gower left the room. It was strange that, loving her

poor little fay as she did, she should urge her to this wretched

marriage; but the squire had talked and persuaded her until he brought

her to see the matter with his eyes. And poor Gipsy was left alone to

pace up and down the room like one deranged, wringing her hands, while

her cheeks and eyes burned with the fire of fever.

"Oh, if Archie would only come!" was the wild cry of her aching heart,

as she walked restlessly to and fro.

But Archie was away; she knew not even his present address, and she was

left to battle against the dark decree of fate alone.

"I will seek Dr. Wiseman; I will beg, I will implore him to spare me,

and those who would have me make this fatal sacrifice. Surely his heart

is not made of stone; he cannot resist my prayers!"

So, waiting in her room until she saw him ride up to the Hall, she

descended the stairs and entered the parlor, where he and the squire sat

in close conversation together, and formally desired the honor of a

private interview.

He arose, and, bowing, followed her into the drawing-room. Motioning him

to a seat she stood before him, her little form drawn up to its full

height, her defiant, dark eyes fixed on his repulsive face with

undisguised loathing.

"Dr. Wiseman," she began, "I have heard of this proposal which you have

honored me by making. Believe me, I fully appreciate the honor you have

done me"--and her beautiful lip curled scornfully--"even while I must

decline it. A silly little girl like me is unworthy to be raised to the

dignity of the wife of so distinguished a gentleman as Dr. Wiseman!"

The doctor acknowledged the compliment by a grave bow, while Gipsy

continued:

"My guardian has informed me that, unless I consent to this union, he

will lose Mount Sunset, be reduced to poverty, and, consequently, die,

he says. You, it seems, will prevent this, if I marry you. Now, Dr.

Wiseman, knowing this marriage is not agreeable to me, I feel that you

will withdraw your claim to my hand, and still prevent Guardy from being

reduced to poverty!"

"Miss Gower, I regret to say I cannot do so. Unless you become my wife,

I shall be obliged to let the law take its course; and all that Squire

Erliston has told you will prove true."

"Dr. Wiseman, you will not be so cruel? I beg--I implore you to prevent

this catastrophe!"

"I will, with pleasure, Miss Gower, if you will be my wife."

"That I can never be, Dr. Wiseman! I would not, to save my head from the

block, consent to such a thing! What in the name of heaven can make a

man of _your_ age wish to marry a silly little thing like me?"

"_Love_, my pretty mountain sprite," replied the doctor, with a grim

smile--"_love_! Years do not freeze the blood, nor still the heart of

man!"

"Then, sir, if you love me, renounce all claim upon my hand, and save my

guardian from impending ruin!"

"That I can never do!"

"Be it so, then, Dr. Wiseman. To you I will plead no more. Let us be

turned out; I would die a death of lingering starvation sooner than wed

with a cold-blooded monster like you!" exclaimed Gipsy, her old fiery

spirit flashing from her eyes and radiating her face.

"And will you see those you love die, too?"

"Yes, even so; sooner than realize the living tomb of a marriage with

you!"

"Ha! ha! ha! All very fine and affectionate, my dear; yet, marry me you

_shall_!"

"Marry you? Not if I die for it!" flashed Gipsy, with blazing eyes.

"That we shall see presently. I think I have an argument in reserve

that will bend your high spirit. You love Archie Rivers?"

"That is no business of yours, Dr. Wiseman!"

"No; no farther than that I am glad of it. Now, Gipsy Gower, I swear by

all the heavens contain, unless you marry me, _he shall die on the

scaffold_!"

"_What?_" gasped Gipsy, appalled by his low, fearful tone, even more

than by his words.

"I say there is but one alternative; marry me, or see him die on the

scaffold!"

"Ha! ha! that's excellent. Are you going to hang him, Dr. Wiseman?"

mocked Gipsy.

"Laugh, girl; but beware! It is in my power to bring his head to the

halter!"

"Where, if everybody had their dues, yours would have been long ago."

"Take care, madam; don't carry your taunts too far--even my forbearance

has its limits!"

"That's more than can be said of your manners!"

The doctor's sallow visage blanched with anger; but, subduing his wrath,

he said:

"I can accuse him of the murder of young Henry Danvers, who was so

mysteriously killed. There is circumstantial evidence against him strong

enough to convict him in any court of justice in the world!"

"Archie kill Danvers? Why, you horrid old monster, you! Ain't you afraid

of the fate of Ananias and his better half, who never told half such a

lie in their lives?"

"Lie or not, girl, it can be proved that he killed him. Listen, now,"

said the doctor, while his repulsive face lighted up with a look of

fiendish exultation. "Archibald Rivers loved _you_--that was plain to

every one. This Danvers came along and fell in love with you, too--that,

likewise, can be duly proved. Your preference for the young sailor was

observable from the first. Rivers was jealous, and I know many who can

prove he often uttered threats of future vengeance against the

midshipman. On the night of the _murder_, Archie was observed riding

from here, in a violent rage. Half an hour afterward the sailor went for

a ride over the hills. I can _swear_ that Archie Rivers followed him. I

know he was not at home until late. Most probably, therefore, he

followed Danvers, and murdered him treacherously. Jealousy will make a

man do almost anything. In a court of justice, many more things than

this can be proved; and if he dies on the scaffold, his blood will be

upon your head."

Gipsy stood listening to his terrible words with blanched face, livid

lips, and horror-stricken eyes. For a moment he thought she would faint.

The very power of life seemed stricken from her heart; but, by a

powerful effort, she aroused herself from the deadly faintness creeping

over her, and exclaimed, in a voice low with unspeakable horror:

"Fiend--demon incarnate! would you perjure your own soul! Would you

become the murderer of your own nephew?"

"Murderer, forsooth! Is that what you call legal justice?"

"It would not be legal justice! Doctor Wiseman, I tell you, if you say

Archie Rivers killed Danvers, you lie! Yes, meanest of vile wretches, I

tell you, you lie!"

He leaped to his feet, glaring with rage, as though he would spring upon

her, and rend her limb from limb. Before him she stood, her little form

drawn up to its full height, defiant and daring--her dark face glaring

with scorn and hatred. For a moment they stood thus--he quivering with

impotent rage--she, proud, defying, and fearless. Then, sinking into

his seat, he said, with stern calmness:

"No--I will restrain myself; but, daring girl, listen to me. As sure as

yonder heaven is above us, if you refuse, so surely shall Squire

Erliston and all belonging to him be turned from their home--to die, if

they will; and Archibald Rivers shall perish by the hand of the hangman,

scorned and hated by all, and knowing that you, for whom he would have

given his life, have brought him to the scaffold. Gipsy Gower, his blood

will cry for vengeance from the earth against you!"

He ceased. There was a wild, thrilling, intense solemnity in his tone,

that made the blood curdle. One look at his fiendish face would have

made you think Satan himself was before you.

And Gipsy! She had dropped, as if suddenly stricken by an unseen hand,

to the floor; her face changed to the ghastly hue of death, the light

dying out in her eyes: her very life seemed passing away from the blue,

quivering lips, from which no sound came; a thousand ages of suffering

seemed concentrated in that one single moment of intense anguish.

But no spark of pity entered the heart that exulted in her agony. No; a

demoniacal joy flashed from his snake-like eyes as he beheld that free,

wild, untamed spirit broken at last, and lying in anguish at his feet.

"This struggle is the last. Now she will yield," was his thought, as he

watched her.

"Gipsy!" he called.

She writhed at the sound of his voice.

"Gipsy!" he called again.

This time she looked up, lifting a face so like that of death that he

started back involuntarily.

"What?" she asked, in a low, hollow voice of despair.

"Do you consent?"

She arose, and walked over until she stood before him. Appalled by her

look, he arose in alarm and drew back.

"Consent!" she repeated, fixing her wild eyes on his frightened face;

"yes, I consent to the living death of a marriage with you. And, Dr.

Wiseman, may my curse and the curse of Heaven cling to you like a

garment of fire, now and forevermore, burning your miserable soul like a

flame in this life, and consigning you to everlasting perdition in the

next! May every torture and suffering that man can know follow the

wronged orphan's curse! In this life I will be your deadliest enemy, and

in the next I will bear witness against you at the throne of God! To

your very grave, and beyond, my undying hatred and revenge for the wrong

you have done me shall be yours; and now I wish you joy of your bride!"

She passed from the room like a spirit; and Dr. Wiseman, terrified and

appalled, sank into a chair, with the vision of that death-like face,

with its blazing eyes and wild, maniac words and wilder stare, haunting

him until he shuddered with superstitious terror.

"What a wife I will have!" he muttered; "a perfect little fiend. Mount

Sunset will be dearly enough purchased with that young tempest for its

mistress. The fiery spirit of the old Oranmores runs in her

veins--that's certain. And now, as there is nothing like striking the

iron while it's hot, I'll go and report my success to that old dotard,

the squire, and have the wedding-day fixed as soon as possible."

CHAPTER XXIV.

MAY AND DECEMBER.

"She looked to the river--looked to the hill--

And thought on the spirit's prophecy;

Then broke the silence stern and still:

'Not you, but Fate, has vanquished me.'"

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

"Celeste, Celeste! do not leave me. Oh! all the world has left me, and

will you go, too? This heart--this restless, beating heart--will it

never stop aching? Oh, Celeste! once I thought I had no heart; but by

this dull, aching pain where it should be, I know I must have had one

some time. Stay with me, Celeste. You are the only one in the world left

for me to love now."

Gipsy--small, fair and fragile, with her little wan face and unnaturally

lustrous eyes--lay moaning restlessly on her low couch, like some

tempest-tossed soul quivering between life and death. Like an angel of

light, by her side knelt Celeste, with her fair, pitying face and her

soft blue eyes, from which the tears fell on the small brown fingers

that tightly clasped hers.

"Dear Gipsy, I will not leave you; but you know you must get up and

dress soon."

"Oh, yes; but not yet. It is so nice to lie here, and have you beside

me. I am so tired, Celeste--I have never rested since I made that

promise. It seems as if ever since I had been walking and walking on

through the dark, unable to stop, with such an aching here."

And she pressed her hand to the poor quivering heart that was

fluttering to escape from the heavy chain fate was drawing tighter and

tighter around it.

"What can I do for you, Gipsy?" said Celeste, stooping and kissing her

pale lips, while two pitying drops fell from her eyes on the poor little

face below her.

"Don't cry for me, Celeste. I never wept for myself yet. Sing for me,

dear friend, the 'Evening Hymn' we used to sing at the Sisters' school,

long ago."

Forcing back her tears, Celeste sang, in a voice low and sweet as liquid

music:

"Ave sanctissima!

We lift our souls to thee--

Ora pro nobis,

Bright star of the sea!

Watch us while shadows lie

Far o'er the waters spread;

Hear the heart's lonely sigh--

Thine, too, hath bled!"

Gipsy listened, with her eyes closed, an expression of peace and rest

falling on her dark, restless face, until Celeste ceased.

"Oh, Celeste, I always feel so much better and happier when you are with

me--not half so much of a heartless imp as at other times," said Gipsy,

opening her eyes. "I wish I could go and live with you and Miss Hagar at

Valley Cottage, or enter a convent, or anywhere, to be at peace. While

you sang I almost fancied myself back again at school, listening to

those dear, kind sisters singing that beautiful 'Evening Hymn.'"

She paused, and murmured, dreamily:

"Watch us while shadows lie

Far o'er the waters spread;

Hear the heart's lonely sigh--

Thine, too, hath bled!"

"Dear Gipsy, do not be so sad. Our Heavenly Father, perhaps, has but

sent you this trial to purify your heart and make it His own. In the

time of youth and happiness we are apt ungratefully to forget the Author

of all good gifts, and yield the heart that should be His to idols of

clay. But in the days of sorrow and suffering we stretch out our arms to

Him; and He, forgetting the past, takes us to his bosom. And, dearest

Gipsy, shall we shrink from treading through trials and sufferings in

the steps of the sinless Son of God, to that home of rest and peace that

He died to gain for us?"

Her beautiful face was transfigured, her eyes radiant, her lips glowing

with the fervor of the deep devotion with which she spoke.

"I cannot feel as you do, Celeste," said Gipsy, turning restlessly. "I

feel like one without a light, groping my way in the dark--like one who

is blind, hastening to my own doom. I cannot look up; I can see into the

dark grave, but no farther."

"Light will come yet, dear friend. Every cloud has its silver lining."

"Never for me. But, hark! What is that?"

Celeste arose, and went to the window.

"It is the carriages bringing more people. The parlors below are full.

You must rise, and dress for your bridal, Gipsy."

"Would to heaven it were for my burial! I am _so_ tired, Celeste. _Must_

I get up?"

"Yes, dear Gipsy; they are waiting for you. I will dress you myself,"

said Celeste, as Gipsy, pale, wan, and spirituelle, arose from her

couch, her little, slight figure smaller and slighter than ever.

Rapidly moved the nimble fingers of Celeste. The dancing dark locks fell

in short, shining curls around the superb little head, making the pale

face of the bride look paler still by contrast. Then Celeste went into

her wardrobe and brought forth the jewels, the white vail, the orange

blossoms, and the rich robes of white brocade, frosted with seed pearls,

and laid them on the bed.

"What is that white dress for?" demanded Gipsy, abruptly, looking up

from a reverie into which she had fallen.

"For you to wear, of course," replied Celeste, astonished at the

question.

"A white dress for me! Ha! ha! ha!" she said, with a wild laugh. "True,

I forgot--when the ancients were about to sacrifice a victim, they robed

her in white and crowned her with flowers. But I will differ from all

other victims, and wear a more suitable color. _This_ shall be my

wedding-dress," said Gipsy, leaving the room, and returning with a dress

of _black_ lace.

Celeste shrank back from its ominous hue with something like a shudder.

"Oh, not in black! Oh, Gipsy! any other color but black for your

wedding. Think how you will shock every one," said Celeste, imploringly.

"Shock them! Why, Celeste, I've shocked them so continually ever since I

was a year old, that when I cease to shock them they won't know Gipsy

Gower. And that reminds me that after to-day I will be 'Mad Gipsy Gower'

no longer, but Mrs. Doctor Nicholas Wiseman. Ha! ha! ha! Wiseman! how

appropriate the name will be! Oh! _won't_ I lead him a life--_won't_ I

make him wish he had never been born--_won't_ I teach him what it is to

drive a girl to desperation? He thinks because I am a little thing he

can hold me up with one hand--and, by the way, Celeste, his hands always

remind me of a lobster's claw stuck into a pump-handle--that he can do

what he pleases with me. We'll see! Hook my dress, Celeste. It's a pity

to keep my Adonis waiting, and disappoint all these good people who

have come to see the fun."

"Dear Gipsy, do not look and talk so wildly. And pray, take off that

black dress, and wear any other color you wish. People _will_ talk so,

you know."

"Let 'em talk then, my dear. They'll only say it's one of Gipsy's whims.

Besides, it will shock Spider, which is just what I want. He'll get a

few more shocks before I have done with him, I rather think. Hook my

dress, Celeste."

With a sigh at the elf's perversity, Celeste obeyed; and with a sad

face, watched the eccentric little bride shake out the folds of her

black robe, and fasten a dark crimson belt around her waist.

"Now, if I had a few poppies or marigolds to fasten in my hair, I'd look

bewitching; as I haven't, these must do." And with a high, ringing

laugh, she twined a dark, purplish passion-flower amid her shining

curls. "Now for my rouge. I must look blooming, you know--happy brides

always should. Then it will save me the trouble of blushing, which is

something I never was guilty of in my life. No, never mind those pearls,

Celeste; I fear Dr. Wiseman might find them brighter than my eye, which

would not do by 'no manner of means.' There! I'm ready. Who ever saw so

bewildering a bride?"

She turned from the mirror, and stood before Celeste, her eyes shining

like stars, streaming with an unnaturally blazing light, the pallor of

her face hidden by the rouge, the dark passion-flower drooping amid her

curls, fit emblem of herself. There was an airy, floating lightness

about her, as if she scarcely felt the ground she walked on--a fire and

wildness in her large, dark eyes that made Celeste's heart ache for her.

Very beautiful she looked, with her dark, oriental face, shaded by its

sable locks, the rich, dark dress falling with classic elegance from

her round, little waist. She looked, as she stood, bright, mocking,

defiant, scornful--more like some fairy changeling--some fay of the

moonlight--than a living creature, with a woman's heart. And yet, under

that daring, bright exterior, a wild, anguished heart lay crushed and

quivering, shedding tears of blood, that leaped to the eyes to be

changed to sparks of fire.

"Let us go down," said Celeste, with a sigh.

"Yes, let us go. Do you know, Celeste, I read once of a man whom the

Indians were going to burn to death at the stake, and who began cursing

them when they led him there for making him wait so long. Now I feel

just like that man; since I _am_ to be doomed to the stake--why, the

sooner the torture is over the better."

She looked so beautiful, so bewitching, yet so mocking and unreal, so

like a spirit of air, as she spoke, that, almost expecting to see her

vanish from her sight, Celeste caught her in her arms, and gazed upon

her with pitying, yearning, love-lit eyes, from which the tears were

fast falling.

"Don't cry for me, Celeste; you make me feel more like an imp than ever.

I really think I must be a family relation of the goblin page we read

about in the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel,' for I feel like doing as he

did, throwing up my arms, and crying, 'Lost!' I'm sure that goblin page

would have made his fortune in a circus, since his ordinary mode of

walking consisted of leaps of fifty feet high or so. Crying still,

Celeste! Why, I thought I'd make you laugh. Now, Celeste, if you don't

dry your eyes, I'll go right up to where Aunty Gower keeps prussic acid

for the rats, and commit suicide right off the reel. I've felt like

doing it all the time lately, but never so much so as when I see you

crying for me. Why, Celeste, I never was worth one tear from those blue

eyes, body and bones. What's the use of anybody's grieving for a

little, mad, hare-brained thing like me? _I'll_ do well enough; I'll be

perfectly happy--see if I don't! It will be such glorious fun, you know,

driving Spider mad! And, oh, _won't_ I dose him! Tra! la, la, la, la,

la!" and Gipsy waltzed airily around the room.

At this moment there came a knock at the door. Celeste opened it, and

Mrs. Gower, in the well-preserved silk and lace cap she had worn years

before to Lizzie Oranmore's wedding, stood in the doorway.

"Oh, Celeste! why don't you hurry? Where is Gipsy? Oh, good gracious,

child! not dressed yet? What on earth have you been doing? The people

have been waiting these two hours, almost, in the parlors! Do hurry, for

mercy sake, and dress!"

"Why, aunty, I _am_ dressed. Don't you see I am all ready to become Mrs.

Wiseman?"

"But my _dear_ child, that black dress----"

"This black dress will do very well--suits my complexion best, which is

rather of the mulatto order than otherwise; and it's a pity if a blessed

bride can't wear what she likes without such a fuss being made about it.

Now, aunty, don't begin to lecture--it'll only be a waste of powder and

a loss of time; and I'm impatient to arrive at the place of execution."

Mrs. Gower sank horrified into a chair, and gazed with a look of despair

into the mocking, defiant eyes of the elfin bride.

"Oh, Gipsy! what ever will the people say? In a _black dress_! Good

heavens! Why, you'll look more like the chief mourner at a funeral than

a bride! And what will Dr. Wiseman say?"

"Oh, don't, aunty! I hope he'll get into a passion, and blow me and

everybody else up when he sees it!" cried Gipsy, clapping her hands with

delight at the idea.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! did any one ever know such a strange girl? Just to

think of throwing aside that beautiful dress that your guardian paid a

small fortune for, for that common black lace thing, the worst dress you

have!"

"Aunty--see here!--you may have this 'beautiful dress' when you get

married. You're young, and good-looking, and substantial, too, and I

shouldn't wonder if you had a proposal one of these days. With a little

letting down in the skirt, and a little letting out in the waist----"

"Gipsy, hush! How can you go on with such nonsense at such a time? Miss

Pearl, can you not induce her to take off that horrid black dress?"

"I think you had better let her wear it, madam. Miss Gower will not be

persuaded."

"Well, since it must be so, then come. Luckily, everybody knows what an

odd, flighty thing Gipsy is, and therefore will not be so much

surprised."

"I should think the world would not be surprised at anything I would do

since I have consented to marry that hideous orang-outang, that mockery

of man, that death's-head, that 'thing of legs and arms,' that----"

"Hush! hush! you little termagant! What a way to speak of the man you

are going to promise to 'love, honor, and obey,'" said the profoundly

shocked Mrs. Gower.

"_Love, honor, and obey!_ Ha, ha, ha! Oh, won't I though, with a

vengeance! Won't I be a pattern wife! You'll see!"

"What do you mean, child?"

"Nothing, aunty," said Gipsy, with a strange smile, "merely making a

meditation. Here we are at the stake at last, and there I perceive

Reverend Mr. Goodenough ready to act the part of executioner; and there,

too, is Dr. Wiseman, the victim--who, as he will by and by find out, is

going to prove himself most decidedly a silly man to-day. Now, Gipsy

Gower, you are going to create a sensation, my dear, though you are

pretty well accustomed to that sort of thing."

They had reached the hall by this time, where Dr. Wiseman, Squire

Erliston, and a number of others stood. All stared aghast at the sable

robes of Gipsy.

"Oh? how is it? Why, what is the meaning of this?" demanded the squire,

in a rage.

"Meaning of what, Guardy?"

"What do you mean, miss, by wearing that black frock?"

"And what business is it of yours, sir?"

"You impudent minx! Go right up stairs and take it off."

"I won't do anything of the kind! There now! Anybody that doesn't like

me in this can let me alone," retorted Gipsy.

A fierce imprecation was on the lips of the squire, but Dr. Wiseman laid

his hand on his arm, and said, in his oiliest tones:

"Never mind her, my dear sir; let her consult her own taste. I am as

willing my bride should wear black as anything else; she looks

bewitching in anything. Come, fairest lady."

He attempted to draw her arm within his, but she sprang back, and

transfixing him with a flashing glance, she hissed:

"No; withered be my arm if it ever rests in yours! Stand aside, Dr.

Wiseman; there is pollution in the very touch of your hand."

"You capricious little fairy, why do you hate me so?"

"Hate! Don't flatter yourself I hate you, Dr. Wiseman--I despise you

too much for that," she replied, her beautiful lip curling scornfully.

"Exasperating little dare-devil that you are!" he exclaimed, growing

white with impotent rage, "take care that I do not make you repent

this."

"You hideous old fright! do you dare to threaten now?"

"Yes, and dare to perform, too, if you do not beware. Keep a guard on

your tongue, my lady, or you know who will suffer for it."

The fierce retort that hovered on the lip of Gipsy was checked by their

entrance into the drawing-room. Such a crowd as was there, drawn

together for miles around by the news of this singular marriage. All

shrank back and looked at one another, as their eyes fell on the ominous

garments of the bride, as she walked in, proudly erect, beside her grim

bridegroom.

"Beauty and the Beast!" "Vulcan and Venus!" "May and December!" were the

whispers that went round the room as they appeared.

The Rev. Mr. Goodenough approached, and the bridal party stood before

him--the doctor glancing uneasily at his little bride, who stood with

her flashing eyes riveted to the floor, her lips firmly compressed,

proud, erect and haughty.

The marriage ceremony commenced, and Mr. Goodenough, turning to the

doctor, put the usual question:

"Nicholas Wiseman, wilt thou have Aurora Gower, here present, to be thy

wedded wife, to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer, for

poorer, in sickness and health, until death doth you part?"

"Yes," was the reply, loud, clear, and distinct.

Turning to the bride the clergyman demanded;

"Aurora Gower, wilt thou have Nicholas Wiseman, here present, to be thy

lawful husband, to have, and to hold?" etc.

A loud, fierce, passionate "_No!_" burst from the lips of the bride. Dr.

Wiseman saw her intention, and was immediately seized with a violent fit

of coughing, in which her reply was drowned.

The mockery of a marriage was over, and Nicholas Wiseman and Aurora

Gower were solemnly pronounced "man and wife."

A mocking smile curled the lips of the bride at the words, and she

turned to receive the congratulations of her many friends, to bear all

the hand-shaking, and hear herself addressed as "Mrs. Wiseman."

"Now, beautiful fairy, you are my own at last. You see fate had decreed

it," said the doctor, with a grim smile.

"And bitterly shall you repent that decree. Do you know what I was doing

when I stood up before the clergyman with you?"

"No, sweet wife."

"Well, then, listen. I was vowing and consecrating my whole life to one

purpose--one aim; and that is _deadly vengeance against you_ for what

you have done. Night and day, sleeping or waking, it shall always occupy

my thoughts, and I will live now only for revenge. Ha! I see I can make

your saffron visage blanch already, Dr. Wiseman. Oh! you'll find what a

happy thing it is to be married. Since I must go down, I shall drag down

with me all who have had part or share in this, my misery. You, viper,

ghoul that you are, have turned my very nature into that of a fiend. Dr.

Wiseman, if I thought, by any monstrous possibility, you could ever go

to heaven, I would take a dagger and send my own soul to perdition,

sooner than go there with you."

There was something in her words, her tone, her face, perfectly

appalling. Her countenance was deadly white, save where the rouge

colored it, and her eyes. Oh! never were such wild, burning, gleaming

eyes seen in any face before. He cowered from her like the soul-struck

coward that he was; and, as with one glance of deadly concentrated hate

she glided from his side and mingled with the crowd, he wiped the cold

perspiration off his brow, and realized how true were the words oft

quoted:

"Hell has no fury like a woman scorned,"

and began to fear that, after all, Mount Sunset was purchased at a dear

price.

CHAPTER XXV.

ARCHIE'S LOST LOVE.

"Be it so! we part forever--

Let the past as nothing be;

Had I only loved thee, never

Hadst thou been thus dear to me.

"More than woman thou wast to me--

Not as man I looked on thee;

Why, like woman, then, undo me?

Why heap man's worst curse on me?"--BYRON.

It was the evening of Gipsy's wedding-day--a wet, chilly, disagreeable

evening, giving promise of a stormy, tempestuous night--fit weather for

such a bridal!

Lights were already gleaming in the cottages of the villagers, and the

large parlor of the "Inn of St. Mark's" was crowded--every one

discussing the surprising wedding up at the Hall, and wondering what

Miss Gipsy would do next--when, as James says, "a solitary horseman

might have been seen," riding at a break-neck pace toward Deep Dale. The

house looked dreary, dark, and dismal--unlighted save by the glare from

one window. Unheeding this, the "solitary horseman" alighted, and giving

his horse to the care of the servant, ran up the stairs and

unceremoniously burst into the parlor, where Minnette Wiseman sat

reading alone. All her father's entreaties and commands to be present at

his wedding were unheeded. She had heard the news of his approaching

marriage with the utmost coolness--a stare of surprise from her bright

black eyes being the only outward emotion it caused.

"Why should I go to see you married?" was her impatient reply to his

stern commands. "I care nothing for Gipsy Gower, nor she for me. You can

be married just as well without me. I won't go!"

Therefore she sat quietly reading at home while the nuptial revelry was

at its height in Sunset Hall, and looked up, with an exclamation of

surprise, to see our traveler standing before her.

"Archie! what in the world brought _you_ here?" she exclaimed, rising,

and placing a chair for him before the fire.

"Rail-cars part of the way, steamer next, and, finally, my horse."

"Don't be absurd. Why have you come to Saint Mark's? No one expected you

here these three months."

"Know it, coz. But I've found out I am the luckiest dog in creation, and

ran down here to tell you and _another_ particular friend I have. I

suppose you have heard of Uncle John Rivers, my father's brother. Yes!

Well, about four months ago he returned from Europe, with one hundred

and fifty thousand dollars and the consumption. Though he never had the

honor of my acquaintance, he knew there existed so distinguished an

individual, and accordingly left the whole of his property to me; and a

few weeks after, gave up the ghost. You see, therefore, Minnette, I'm a

rich man. I've pitched law to its patron saint, the--hem!--and started

off down here post-haste to marry a certain little girl in these

diggin's, and take her with me to see the sights in Europe."

"My dear cousin, I congratulate you. I presume Miss Pearl is to be the

young lady of your choice."

"No; Celeste is too much of an angel for such a hot-headed scamp as I

am. I mean another little girl, whom I've long had a _penchant_ for. But

where's your father?"

Minnette laughed sarcastically.

"Getting married, I presume. This night my worthy parent follows the

Scriptural injunction, and takes unto himself a wife."

"Nonsense, Minnette!--you jest."

"Do I?" said Minnette, quietly. "I thought you knew me well enough now,

Archie, to know I never jest."

"But, Minnette, it is absurd. Dr. Wiseman married in his old age. Why,

it's a capital joke." And Archie laughed uproariously. "Who is the

fortunate lady that is to be your mamma and my respected aunt?"

"Why, no other than that little savage, Gipsy Gower."

Had a spasm been suddenly thrust into Archie's heart, he could not have

leaped more convulsively from his seat. Even the undaunted Minnette drew

back in alarm.

"What did you say?" he exclaimed, grasping her arm, unconsciously, with

a grip of iron. "To whom is he to be married?"

"To Aurora Gower. What do you mean, sir? Let go my arm."

He dropped it, staggered to a chair, dropped his head in his hands, and

sat like one suddenly struck by death.

"Archie, what _is_ the matter?" said Minnette, looking at him in wonder.

"Was Gipsy the one you came here to marry?"

"Minnette! Minnette! it cannot be true!" he exclaimed, springing to

his feet, without heeding her question. "It is absurd--monstrous--

_impossible_! My wild, free, daring Gipsy would never consent to

marry a man she abhorred. For Heaven's sake, Minnette, only say you

have been jesting!"

"I have spoken the truth," she answered, coldly. "My father this morning

married Aurora Gower!"

"Great heavens! I shall go mad! What in the name of all the saints

tempted her to commit such an act?"

"I know not. Most probably it is one of her strange freaks--or, perhaps,

she thinks papa rich, and married him for his money. At all events,

married him she has; her reasons for doing so I neither know nor care

for."

"Heaven of heavens! Could Gipsy--she whom I always thought the pure,

warm-hearted child of nature--commit so base an act? It cannot be! I

will _never_ believe it! By some infernal plot she has been entrapped

into this unnatural marriage, and dearly shall those who have forced her

rue it!" exclaimed Archie, treading up and down the room like one

distracted.

"You always _thought_ her simple and guileless; I always _knew_ her to

be artful and ambitious. She has not been entrapped. I have heard that

she laughs as merrily as ever, and talks more nonsense than she ever did

before in her life--in short, appears perfectly happy. She is too bold

and daring to be entrapped. Besides, what means could they use to compel

her? If she found them trying to tyrannize over her, she would run off

as she did before. Nonsense, Archie! Your own sense must tell you she

has married him willingly."

Every word was like a dagger to his heart. He dropped into a chair,

buried his face in his hands, and groaned.

"Oh, Gipsy! Gipsy!--lost to me forever. What are wealth and honor to me

now! For you I toiled to win a home and name, believing you true. And

thus I am repaid for all. Oh, is there nothing but treachery and deceit

in this world? Would to heaven," he added, springing fiercely up, and

shaking back his fair, brown hair, "that the man she has wedded were not

an old dotard like that. I would blow his brains out ere another hour."

"My father will, no doubt, rejoice to find his years have saved his

life," said Minnette, in her customary cold tone. "Pray, Mr. Rivers, be

more calm; there is no necessity for all this excitement. If Aurora

Gower has deserted you for one whom she supposed wealthier, it is only

the old story over again."

"The old story!" exclaimed Archie, bitterly. "Yes, the old story of

woman's heartlessness and treachery, and man's blind self-deception. Be

calm! Yes; if you had told me she whom I love above all on earth was

dead, and in her grave, I might be calm; but the wife of another, and

that _other_"--he paused, and ground his teeth with impotent rage.

"Well, since it is so, and cannot be helped, what's the use of making

such a time about it?" said Minnette, impatiently, taking up her book

and beginning to read.

Archie glanced at the cold, stone-like girl before him, whose very

calmness seemed to madden him; then, seizing his hat, he rushed from the

room, exclaiming:

"Yes, I will see her--I will confront her once more, accuse her of her

deceit and selfishness, and then leave the country forever."

He was out of the house in an instant; and in five minutes was galloping

madly through the driving wind and rain, unheeded and unfelt, now toward

Mount Sunset Hall.

The numberless blazing lights from the many windows illumined his path

before it; the sound of revelry was wafted to his ears by the wind,

making him gnash his teeth in very rage.

He reached the mansion, threw the reins to one of the many servants

standing in the court-yard; and all wet and travel-stained, pale, wild,

and excited as he was, he made his way through the wondering crowd, that

involuntarily made way for him to pass; and

"So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all.

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented--the gallant came late."

Heeding not the many curious eyes bent upon him, still he strode on,

until he stood within the crowded drawing-room.

Amid all that throng his eye saw but one face, beheld but one form.

Standing near the upper end of the room was Gipsy--_his_ Gipsy

once--looking far more beautiful than he had ever seen her before, and

flirting with all her might with a dashing lieutenant.

Having gained her point, to be married in black, she had exchanged her

dismal robes for the gorgeous wedding-dress that fell around her in

folds of light. Pearls flashed amid her raven curls, gleamed in her

ears, shone on her white arms, and rose and fell on her restless bosom.

She needed no rouge, for her cheeks were vivid crimson, her lips red and

glowing, her eyes outshining the jewels she wore. Never had Gipsy been

so lovely, so bewildering, so intoxicating before.

The very sight seemed to madden Archie. To see her there in all her

dazzling beauty, the wife of another, laughing and talking as gayly as

though _he_ had never existed, nearly drove him to desperation. Striding

through the crowd of gay revelers, who drew back in alarm from his wild,

pale face and fierce eyes, he advanced through the room, and stood

before the bride.

There was an instantaneous hush through the room. Dr. Wiseman, already

sullen and jealous, sprang up from the distant corner to which he had

retreated, but did not venture to approach.

Gipsy's graceful head was bent in well-affected timidity as she listened

to the gallant words and whispered compliments of the gay young officer,

when, suddenly looking up, she beheld a sight that froze the smile on

her lip, the light in her eye, the blood in her veins, the very life in

her heart. Every trace of color faded from her face, leaving her white

as the dead; her lips parted, but no sound came forth.

"So, Mrs. Wiseman, I see you recognize me!" he said, with bitter

sarcasm. "Allow me to congratulate you upon this joyful occasion. Do not

let the recollection that you have perjured yourself to-day before God's

minister, mar your festivity to-night. No doubt the wealth for which you

have cast a true heart aside, and wedded a man you loathe, will make you

completely happy. As I leave America forever to-morrow, I wished to

offer my congratulations to the 'happy pair' before I went. I was fool

enough, at one time, to believe the promises you made me; but I did not

then know 'how fair an outside falsehood hath.' Farewell, Mrs. Wiseman!

you and I will never meet again. All your treachery, all your deceit,

your heartlessness, is known to me, and I will never trouble you more!"

He turned, left the house, sprang on his horse, and was out of St.

Mark's ere any one had recovered from their astonishment and

stupefaction sufficiently to speak.

He heard not, as he rode along, the wild, piercing cry of anguish that

broke from the lips of the bride, as she fell senseless to the ground.

He knew not, as he stood on the deck of the steamer, next morning, bound

for "merrie England," that the once free, wild, mountain huntress, the

once daring, defying Gipsy, lay raving and shrieking in the wild

delirium of brain fever, calling always in vain for him she had lost.

They had caught the young eaglet, and caged it at last; but the free

bird of the mountains lay wounded and dying in their grasp.

CHAPTER XXVI.

LOUIS.

"A look of pride, an eye of flame;

A full-drawn lip that upward curled;

An eye that seemed to scorn the world."--SCOTT.

It was a merry morn in June, many months after the events related in the

last chapter. A brief retrospective glance it is necessary to take ere

we proceed.

For many long weeks after the fatal night of her marriage, Gipsy lay

hovering between life and death; and Celeste came, with her loving

heart, and gentle voice, and noiseless footstep, and, unheeding rest or

sleep, nursed the poor, pale, crazed little bride back to life. No one

else would Gipsy have near her--not even Aunty Gower; and a physician

from the city attended her--for the very mention of her detested

bridegroom threw her into hysterics. But, notwithstanding all their

care, long months passed away ere Gipsy was well again, and Celeste,

worn and wearied, but uncomplaining, permitted to return to the peaceful

solitude of Valley Cottage.

Dr. Wiseman had not yet breathed a syllable of Gipsy's parentage. He

could not do so during her illness; and when she recovered, he wished a

decent interval of time to elapse ere he made it known, lest the world

should suspect his previous knowledge of it had caused him to marry her.

Besides, he found there was no cause to hurry; for, during Gipsy's

illness, the squire had invited him to shut up his house at Deep Dale,

and bring Minnette with him, to reside at Sunset Hall. To this the

doctor eagerly assented; and having, with some trouble, prevailed upon

Minnette to accompany him, Deep Dale was rented, and the doctor and his

daughter became domesticated at Mount Sunset Hall.

Nearly nine months had elapsed. Gipsy--now as well as ever, and more

daring and mischievous even than before--had just set herself to work to

begin fulfilling the vow she had made, and soon succeeded in driving the

doctor nearly wild. Though he had merely married her for her money, he

had, as time passed on, learned to love her with a strange, selfish,

absorbing passion; and the more she mocked, and scorned, and laughed at

him, the more infatuated he grew. The wilful elf kept her husband in a

constant state of panic and terror, running into the greatest dangers

with the utmost recklessness, and often barely escaping with her life.

Out all hours of the day and night, sometimes not coming home until

morning, it is not to be wondered at that she kept the whole household

in alarm. Often after midnight, going out to search for her, they would

find her riding among the rocks, or, having tied up Mignonne, she would

be discovered asleep in some grotto or cavern. Then her flirting! The

doctor was madly jealous, and not without reason. There was not a man

under thirty, if at all presentable, but the reckless girl had flirted

unmercifully with, in a way that would have completely destroyed the

reputation of any other woman, but which was merely noticed by the

remark that it was "just like Gipsy;" and her maddest actions were

listened to with a smile and a stare of astonishment, and a "wonder what

she'll do next?" Poor, half-crazed little Gipsy! The real goodness of

her nature was too apparent to all through her outward recklessness to

make them suspect her of evil.

St. Mark's had become a much gayer place than when we first knew it.

Many new families had moved hither from the city; and balls, and

parties, and sleigh-rides in winter, and picnics, and excursions, and

soirees, in summer, became all the rage; and the leader of all these was

the "merry little Mrs. Wiseman," as these new-comers called her. And no

one, to see her entering heart and soul into these festivities, would

ever dream of the miserable secret weighing on her mind, or the still

untamed, restless heart that struggled to find forgetfulness in constant

gayety.

They had never heard of Archie since his departure, save once through

Louis, who, in one of his letters, spoke of having met him in Paris. No

one mentioned his name at Sunset Hall. Gipsy especially, even in the

remotest way, never alluded to him; and the good, obtuse family began to

hope she had quite forgotten him.

And now we have come back to that merry morn in June with which this

chapter opened. Gipsy, arrayed in a tasteful riding-habit, which she

held up with one hand, while in the other she held a silver-mounted

riding-whip, stood in the breezy park, watching her horse, that was

neighing impatiently to be off. Mrs. Gower stood behind her, looking

troubled and anxious.

"My dear Gipsy," she was saying, "I wish you would not go out this

morning. What will people say to see you out riding, and your husband

having fallen from his horse, and broken two of his ribs and his leg,

last night?"

"I wish it had been his neck!"

"Oh, child! don't say such sinful, wicked things. Of course, I know you

don't mean them; but then it's very wrong."

"I don't care, aunty; I _do_ wish it--there! I don't see what possesses

him to cumber the earth so long. If he doesn't give up the ghost soon,

I'll administer a dose of hemp some night--for I do believe his destiny

is hanging. If there ever was a neck made for a rope, it's his--just the

shape for it. Jupe, mind what you're at there. Don't let Mignonne get

all over dust."

"Gipsy, you will stay?"

"I _won't_ stay, aunty--not if it were Dr. Wiseman's neck, instead of

his ribs, that was broken. Oh, yes, I would, too; I'd stay home then for

joy. I'm off now. Good-bye. If his worship becomes extinct during my

absence, just send for me, and I'll shed a few tears, and everything

will go off in fashionable style."

And, laughing at Mrs. Gower's scandalized face, Gipsy leaped on her

horse and rode off.

As she ascended the hills behind Mount Sunset she beheld, opposite to

her, a horseman with his back toward her, standing silent and

motionless, gazing upon Sunset Hall.

"I wonder who he is?" thought Gipsy. "A handsome fellow, I should say,

for his form is superb. Wonder if he knows he's standing on my favorite

point of view? Well, as I've no notion of surrendering my rights to him

or any one else, I'll just give him a hint to get out of that." And,

suiting the action to the words, Gipsy shouted, as she reined up her

horse: "Hallo, sir!"

The horseman was still gazing like one entranced. He evidently did not

hear her.

"I say, sir!" again called Gipsy.

Still no answer.

"Well, whoever you are," soliloquized Gipsy, "you're mighty polite to

refuse answering a lady. I'll try again. Look here, sirrah, will you?"

He did not move.

"Well, 'pon my honor, that's decidedly cool!" said Gipsy. "So you won't

pretend to notice me, eh? Very well, sir; we'll see whether you'll pay

more attention to a lady than this."

And Gipsy drew a pistol from her belt, took deliberate aim, and fired.

It was well she doubted not her own skill; it was well she had a steady

hand and eye; for the bullet passed through the crown of his hat,

scarcely two inches above the temple.

With an exclamation of surprise and anger, the stranger turned round,

and likewise drew a pistol. His eye wandered over the scene; but he

could see no one but a young girl, who was coolly reloading her pistol,

as if about to send a second ball in the same direction.

"Good-morning, madam. Did you see any one fire just now," said the

stranger, in a most musical voice, as he rode toward her.

"Yes, sir, _I_ fired it," replied Gipsy, impudently.

"_You_ did!" said the stranger, with a stare of surprise; "and may I

ask, madam, if it was your intention to shoot me?"

"Of course it was! My aim was unfortunately taken a little too high. If

you'll just stand there again, I'll try another shot," replied Gipsy

gravely.

Again the stranger stared, as though doubting the sanity of his

companion. There was no idiocy, however, in the bright, keen eyes,

twinkling with suppressed mirth, that were now lifted to his; and,

taking off his hat, the stranger pointed to the hole, saying:

"On the whole, I think I have no particular fancy for being made a

target of--especially for so good a shot as you. May I ask the name of

the fair amazon I have been fortunate enough to meet?"

"You must be a stranger here not to know it. I have several names; the

last and least of which is--Mrs. Wiseman. And yours?"

"Louis Oranmore, very much at your service," he answered, with a courtly

bow.

"Oh!" Such a stare as he got from those bright eyes--such a quick flush

of delight as overspread the pretty face beneath him--such a keen

scrutiny as his face underwent at that moment. He noticed it, without

pretending to do so; but there was an ill-repressed smile of amusement

hovering about his finely-chiseled lip. Yet it was evident he did not

recognize her.

The handsome, impetuous boy had grown into a tall, elegant,

princely-looking man. His complexion, darkened by foreign suns to a

clear, manly olive, was shaded by a profusion of jet-black curling hair.

His fine dark eyes were bright, clear, almost piercing; his upper lip

was shaded by a black mustache, but it did not conceal its scornful

upward curve. Pride and passion, genius and unbending will were written

in every lineament of that irresistibly handsome face; yet there was at

times a winning softness in it, particularly when he smiled. He still

bore a strong likeness to his dead father, save that Louis was much

handsomer. There was something grand and noble in his tall yet slight

figure, mingled with an ease and grace of manner that bespoke his

acquaintance with polished society. His voice, that could at times ring

with the clarion tones of command, never addressed a woman without being

modulated to the softest and most musical of sounds. Such had our old

favorite Louis become--very little like the Louis we once knew, we must

own--very little like the guileless, innocent Louis, this gay young man

of pleasure.

Perhaps something of all this was floating through the mind of Gipsy;

for in spite of the admiration that shone in her now radiant face, she

finished her scrutiny with a sigh.

"Well, fair lady, do you find me so very hideous that you thus turn

away?" he asked, fixing his deep, dark eyes in evident amusement on her

face.

Gipsy would have blushed had she known how; but it was something she

knew very little about, so she merely answered:

"Well, I think I have seen persons almost as frightful looking as you

before. You are a stranger here, I presume?"

"Yes; though this is my native village, yet I have been absent for many

years in Europe. May I ask if you are acquainted with the inmates of

Sunset Hall yonder?"

"Yes; I've seen them."

"Are they all well?"

"Why, yes, I believe so; all but Spi--I mean Dr. Wiseman."

"Dr. Wiseman! What has he to do there?--he does not belong to the

family."

"Yes, he does."

"_What?_"

"He married a ward of Squire Erliston's--Gipsy--something, I think they

called her. Gow--Gow--Gower, I believe, was the name--and then, with his

daughter, came there to live."

"Why, is it possible? Has little Gipsy Gower married that old man--old

enough to be her grandfather?" exclaimed Louis, in unbounded amazement.

"Yes."

"Well, after that, nothing will surprise me. And Archie never mentioned

a word of it," said Louis, in a sort of soliloquy; "and my--and Mrs.

Oranmore, how is she?"

"Pretty well. She has not been very strong lately."

"Poor mother! And the squire?"

"Is quite well."

"You reside in St. Mark's, I presume?"

"Why, yes. Nonsense, Louis! Don't you know me?"

"Hallo! No, it's not; yes, it is, though; it's Gipsy Gower, is it not?"

cried Louis.

"No, sir. Mrs. Nicholas Wiseman, if you please," said Gipsy, drawing

herself up.

"My dear little Gipsy, I am delighted to meet you again. How handsome

you have grown! Allow me to embrace my little playmate?"

Accepting his salute with saucy cordiality, Gipsy turned her horse's

head in the direction of the Hall.

"Tell me now, Louis, what brings you home so suddenly?" asked Gipsy.

"Why, to confess the truth, I grew tired of sight-seeing, and began to

feel homesick for the old, familiar faces; so, wishing to surprise you

all, I started without sending you word, and here I am. But, Gipsy,

whatever possessed you to marry that old man?"

"_Love_, of course. People always marry for love, you know."

"Pshaw! Gipsy, I know better than that. Why did you jilt poor Archie? I

met him in Paris, half crazy, one would imagine. He answered my

questions rationally enough, until we came to speak of you, when he

burst forth into a torrent of invectives against flirts and deceivers in

general, and then seized his hat and fled from the room, leaving me to

conjecture as best I might his meaning. Come, Gipsy, own up, are you not

the cause of all this frenzy?"

Gipsy's face had grown very pale; her eyes were bent on the ground, her

lips firmly compressed, as she answered, in a low, hurried voice:

"Louis, don't talk to me on this subject. I am wicked and wretched

enough the best of times, but I always feel like a perfect fiend when

this subject is mentioned. Suffice it for you to know that fate had

decreed I should wed Dr. Wiseman; no earthly power could have prevented

it, therefore I became his wife."

"Did they dare to force you?" exclaimed Louis, with a kindling eye. "If

so----"

"No, no, Louis; I could have refused if I would. Don't mention this

subject more. See, there is the old hall; and there at the gate stands

Minnette Wiseman, _my_ daughter now, you know. Is she not a beautiful

girl?"

"Beautiful indeed!" exclaimed Louis, enthusiastically, pausing

involuntarily to gaze upon her.

Splendid indeed looked Minnette. Her dress of black (she always wore

black) fluttering in the morning breeze, and confined at the slender

waist by a dark crimson belt. Her long, shiny blue-black hair was twined

in classic braids around her superb head. Her glorious black eyes were

fixed on the glancing waters of the bay, and no June rose ever bloomed a

more brilliant crimson than the hue of her cheek. She might have been an

Eastern queen--for her beauty was truly regal, with her dark, oriental

face, and splendid Syrian eye; but there was too much fire and passion

in her nature, and too few womanly traits and feelings.

"Oh, Minnette, guess who's come!" cried Gipsy, riding up to where she

stood.

"Who?" said Minnette, breathlessly, as her eye fell on Louis.

The next moment she started convulsively; the blood rushed in torrents

to her brow. _She_ had recognized him, though Gipsy had not.

"It's Louis," said Gipsy--"Louis Oranmore! Come, Louis! come! Miss

Minnette. I am going up to the house to tell them you have come."

She was off like a flash, up the lawn, and in the house, while Louis

leaped from his horse, and with courtly grace raised Minnette's hand to

his lips; while she, pressing her hand to her heart, that beat and

throbbed as though it would force its way to him, strove to return his

salutation. It was a strange thing to see the cold, marble-like Minnette

so moved.

"How everything has changed since I left home!" said Louis; "the place

itself seems changed, and you more than all. I left you a little girl,

thoughtful beyond your years, and I return to find you----"

"The most beautiful woman my eyes ever rested on," he would have said,

but she raised her head, and something in the expression of her face

checked him.

No marble ever was whiter or more cold, as she said:

"Yes, all has changed, and none more so than your former _favorite_,

Celeste."

"Ah! little Celeste--how is she? I had forgotten to ask for her. I trust

she is well?"

"I presume so. I know nothing to the contrary."

"I remember her a lovely child; I suppose she is an equally lovely

girl?" said Louis, carelessly.

A scorching, scathing glance shot from the lightning eyes of Minnette;

but, without answering him, she turned away, and walked steadily into

the house.

"Strange, incomprehensible girl!" said Louis, looking in surprise after

her. "How that flashing glance reminds me of the Minnette of other days!

Have I said anything to offend her, I wonder? Heigho! what a radiant

creature she is, to be sure! What would not some of the gay court

beauties I know give for that superb form and glorious face! Well, I

must not fall in love with her, however, if I can help it. Here comes

that airy little mountain sprite, Gipsy! and now for my lady mother!"

"Come, Louis, come!" she cried, darting in again.

Louis followed her as she led the way to his mother's chamber. Then

opening the door, she ushered him in, and closing it after her,

immediately retreated.

Lizzie sat in an easy-chair, a crimson shawl wrapped around her, her

eyes bright, her pale cheeks flushed with expectation. She arose at his

entrance, and the next moment was clasped in his arms, while their

mutual exclamations were:

"My dear Louis!"

"My dearest mother!"

There was a moment's silence; then Lizzie raised her head and surveyed

him from head to foot, her face sparkling with pride and admiration.

"How tall you have grown! and how handsome you are!--handsome enough for

a king, I think, Louis!" she said, delightedly.

"Are kings handsomer than other people, my dear mother?" he said, with a

smile.

"Why, I suppose so; I never saw one. You are the very image of your poor

dead father, too! Dear me! what an age it seems since we parted last!"

said Lizzie, sinking back in her seat, with a sigh.

"I am sorry to find you so ill, mother," said Louis, gazing sadly into

her thin, pale face, from which the bright glow was fast fading.

"Oh, I am always worse in the spring than at any other time. In a month

or two I will be quite a different-looking individual," said Lizzie,

hopefully.

An hour passed away, and then there came a tap at the door. Louis arose

and opened it, and beheld Gipsy.

"Well, Louis, if you're done talking to your mother, you'd better come

down and see Guardy. He's just woke up, but he doesn't know yet you've

come," said Gipsy.

Louis went down stairs, taking half the staircase at a bound in his

haste. Pushing open the parlor door, he unceremoniously entered the

presence of the squire, who, after his old habit, lay in a lounging

chair, with his feet stretched upon another, smoking his pipe with the

benign air of a man at peace with himself and the rest of mankind.

At the abrupt entrance of Louis he looked up with a start, and muttered

something suspiciously like an oath at seeing a tall, dark foreigner--as

he supposed him to be--standing before him.

"Eh? who the deuce--I beg your pardon, sir, sit down," said the squire,

staring with all his eyes.

"Do you not know me, my dear grandfather?" said Louis, advancing with

extended hand.

"Why! Lord bless me, if it is not Louis Oranmore," said the squire,

jumping up, "with as much hair on his face as a chimpanzee monkey has on

its body. Bless my heart! this _is_ a surprise! When did you get home?

Eh, when did you come?"

"About an hour ago, sir."

"And you're Louis? Well, well! Why, you weren't as high as that when you

left," holding his hand about three inches from the ground, "and here

you come back as tall as a lamp-post, with mustache enough for a

shoe-brush, and dressed like a Spanish grandee. 'All's vanity,' as

Solomon says. Well, and how did you get on with those old humbugs you

went off to see--eh?"

"What old humbugs, sir?"

"Pooh! you know very well--the old masters."

"Oh! I flatter myself I have seen them to some purpose," said Louis,

laughing; "but, to change the subject, I perceive you have made a few

changes in the domestic economy of Sunset Hall during my absence."

"Why, yes, my boy; a few, a few! Gipsy's married to the old doctor, and

didn't want to, either; but we coaxed her round and took her while she

was 'in the humor,' as Solomon says."

"I trust, sir, Gipsy was not _compelled_ to marry this old man?" said

Louis, with a darkening brow.

"Pooh! pshaw! of course not! Married him of her own free will--just like

Gipsy, always doing what nobody would expect; 'women are like mules,' as

Solomon says--want them to go one way, and they'll be sure to go

t'other," said the squire, uneasily, evidently anxious to change the

subject. "Have you seen old Wiseman and his daughter since your return?"

"I have not seen the doctor, but his daughter I have. She is a most

beautiful girl," replied Louis.

"Bah! 'All that glitters is not gold,' as Solomon says. She's a proud,

sullen, conceited minx, _that's_ what she is--never liked her. And mind,

my young jackanapes, you mustn't go and fall in love with her. You must

look out for an heiress; not a girl like her, without a cent to bless

herself with."

"I thought the doctor was rich," said Louis.

"So he is; but stingy--infernally stingy! Won't give her a copper till

his death!"

"Well, sir, I have no present intention of falling in love with her or

any one else; but if I had, Minnette Wiseman would be just the girl for

me. She is handsome, refined, intellectual, as any one can tell from her

conversation. What more would a man have?"

"Stuff! moonshine! 'Fine words butter no parsnips,' as Solomon says. She

wants the _gilt_--the money, my boy. Love in a cottage sounds very fine,

but come to real life and see what it is. No, sir; I will never hear to

your marrying a poor girl--never! The heir of Erliston and Oranmore must

find an heiress for a wife. No matter about love, you know; money's the

thing. 'When poverty comes in at the door love flies out of the window,'

as Solomon says."

CHAPTER XXVII.

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.

"Oh, her smile it seemed half holy,

As if drawn from thoughts more fair

Than our common jestings are;

And if any painter drew her,

He would paint her, unaware,

With a halo round her hair."

--E. B. BROWNING.

A week had passed away at Mount Sunset Hall since the arrival of Louis.

It had been a week of unremitting storm. Rain, rain, rain, from morning

till night, and from night to morning, without ceasing.

No one could go abroad in such weather; so the arrival of Louis remained

a secret in the neighborhood. It is true, Gipsy, who feared storm no

more than sunshine, would have ridden forth, but preparations were being

made for a grand party at the mansion, in honor of Louis' arrival, and

she was forced to stay at home to assist. The whole household, with the

exception of Louis and Minnette, were pressed into the business. Even

Lizzie sat in the dining-room and stoned raisins, and sorted fruit, and

pickles, and preserves, and looked over dresses, and laces, and

muslins, and flowers, with unabated zeal. Gipsy might have been seen

flying about in calico long-shorts from morning till night, entering

heart and soul into the excitement. Jupiter and Mrs. Gower were sent to

the city for "things," and the squire was continually blowing and

blustering about, and over-seeing all in general.

Minnette was too indolent to have anything to do with it, and so was

left to herself--and Louis. That young gentleman, seeing how busy all

were, gravely offered his services in the kitchen, saying, with the

assistance of Totty, he had no doubt but he would learn how to wash

dishes and make himself useful in time. His offer, however, like the

manuscripts often sent to publishers, was "respectfully declined," and

he and Minnette being thus thrown together, became, during the week of

the storm, the best of friends--perhaps something more.

Their mornings were usually spent in the library, she embroidering while

he read aloud poetry--dangerous occupation for a young and handsome man.

Then he had such long stories and anecdotes to tell her, of his travels,

of his "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field;" and it _did_ flatter

his vanity a little to see the work drop unnoticed from her hand, her

cheek flush or pale, her breath come quick and short at his words. Their

afternoons were mostly devoted to music; she seated at the piano playing

and singing his favorite songs, chiefly old Scotch and German love

ditties, which he liked better than Italian songs or opera music, in

spite of his usually fashionable taste. And Minnette--wild, passionate

girl that she was--who can tell the tumultuous thoughts that set her

heart throbbing so fast, or brought so vivid a crimson to her blooming

cheek, as he bent over her, entranced--his dark, glossy locks mingling

with hers? Perhaps he did not exactly make love to her, but he was too

thorough a man of the world not to perceive that she loved him, as only

one of her fiery, passionate nature can love. The proud, haughty girl,

who had all her life been a marble statue to others, was gentle and

timid as a child before him. And he--I cannot excuse him--but though he

loved her not he liked this devoted homage, this fiery heart he had

tamed and won; and by his manner, almost unconsciously, led her to

believe her love was returned. For the first time in her life, she was

supremely happy, yielding herself, without restraint, to the

intoxicating spell of his eye and voice.

Gipsy's keen eyes saw all this, too--saw it with regret and

apprehension, and with instinctive dread.

"Minnette's marble heart had been changed to quivering flesh at last,"

was her soliloquy. "She _loves_ him, and (it is the old story) he

_likes_ her. Heaven forbid he should trifle with her! for woe to you,

Louis Oranmore, if the unchained force of Minnette's lion-passions is

aroused. Better for you you had never been born, than that the mad love

of her tiger heart should turn to still madder hate. She can never make

him or any one else happy; she is too fierce, too jealous, too exacting.

I wish she had never come here. I will ride over to-night or to-morrow,

and bring Celeste here; when he sees _her_, I know he can never love

Minnette. It may not be too late yet to remedy the evil. The love of

Celeste would ennoble him--raise him above the earth, that of Minnette

will drag him down, down, to darkness and doom. I must prevent it."

Too late! too late! Gipsy. The evil has been done that can never be

remedied. The "marble-heart" is awakened from its long repose at last.

The cards of invitation had been sent out for miles around. Early in the

evening of the day appointed Gipsy ordered the carriage and drove to

Valley Cottage. Miss Hagar, gray, grim, and unchanged, stiff and upright

as ever, sat (as usual) knitting in the chimney-corner. A perfect bower

of neatness was that little cottage--outside almost hidden in its wealth

of vines and leaves--inside, bright with cleanliness, and odoriferous

with the perfume of flowers that came drifting in through the white

draped windows and open door. And there, sitting by the window in her

neat-fitting muslin dress, bright, sunshiny, and smiling, sat sweet

Celeste, the "Star of the Valley," celebrated for her beauty for miles

around.

"Ah, Miss Hagar! how d'ye do? Pleasant day," said Gipsy, flashing in

after her old fashion. "Celeste, throw down that sewing, and come right

off to the Hall with me; I want you."

"Oh! really, my dear Gipsy, you must excuse me," smiled Celeste; "I am

making this dress for poor old Widow Mayer, and must finish it to-night.

So I cannot possibly go."

"Now, that's just like you, Celeste--always sewing, or sitting up, or

writing letters, or reading the Testament to some poor old unfortunate,

instead of taking any pleasure for yourself. I declare you ought to be a

Sister of Charity, at once! But you sha'n't work yourself to death for

any one; so come along. I'll send the old lady over, to-morrow, every

dress I have, sooner than want you to-night."

"But Miss Hagar, Gipsy; it is not right for me to leave her alone. She

is so lonesome without me."

"No, she's not. You're glad to get rid of her; ain't you, Miss Hagar?"

"I should be pleased to have her go. It is right she should enjoy

herself with the rest of the young folks," said Miss Hagar.

"There! you hear that? Now you go and get ready!"

"But really, dear Gipsy----"

"Now, none of your 'dear Gipsy-ing' me! I won't listen to another word!

You _must_ come; that's the whole of it," said Gipsy, seizing the work,

and throwing it into a corner, and pulling the laughing Celeste by main

force from the room.

"But, Gipsy, why are you so anxious for me to go with you to-night?"

said Celeste, when they had reached her chamber.

"Oh, because I have my _raysons_ for it," as little Pat Flynn says. "Now

I want you to look your very prettiest to-night, Celeste. In fact, you

must be perfectly irresistible."

"I am afraid you are going to play me some trick, Gipsy!" said Celeste,

smiling and hesitating.

"Oh! honor bright! Come, hurry up! Put on your white muslin; you look

better in it than anything else."

"Besides being the best dress I have," said Celeste, as she took it

down, for the cottage maiden always dressed with the utmost plainness

and simplicity.

"I'll run out and gather you some rosebuds for your hair," said Gipsy,

as Celeste began to dress.

"But, indeed, Gipsy, I am not accustomed to be so gayly attired," said

Celeste, anxiously.

"Nonsense! what is there gay in a few white rosebuds, I'd like to know?

You _shall_ wear them," said Gipsy, hurrying from the room.

Half an hour later and Celeste's toilet was complete. Very lovely she

looked in her simple white robe, fastened at her slender waist by a blue

ribbon, her shining hair of pale gold falling like a shower of sunlight

over her beautifully white and rounded neck, and wreathed with moss

roses. Her fair, rose-tinted face, with its deep, blue eyes, shaded by

long, sunny lashes; her red, smiling lips; her softly flushed cheeks,

and broad, transparent forehead, bright with youth, and goodness, and

loveliness!

"Why, Celeste, you are radiant to-night--lovely, bewitching, angelic!"

exclaimed Gipsy, gazing upon her in sort of rapture.

"Nonsense, dear Gipsy!" said Celeste, smiling, and blushing even at the

words of the little hoyden. "Are you, too, becoming a flatterer?"

"Not I; I would scorn to be! You know I never flatter, Celeste; but you

seem to have received a baptism of living beauty to-night."

Celeste very well knew Gipsy never flattered. Candor was a part of the

elf's nature; so, blushing still more, she threw a light shawl over her

shoulders, and entered the sitting-room. Both girls took leave of Miss

Hagar, and entered the carriage, that whirled them rapidly in the

direction of Mount Sunset.