POOR, UNLOVED GIPSY, THE WAIF.
The storm raged on with fitful violence till late afternoon, and in the
excitement of the day none of the household took note of the fact that
Gipsy did not return.
Lelia’s trunks had duly arrived, and arraying herself in beautiful
garments, she had descended to the parlor to cheer her betrothed, who
was looking rather disconsolate in the strange solitude of the country
house, which afforded time to dwell at length on the happenings of the
morning.
His beautiful sweetheart’s ungovernable temper had always been a source
of pain to his nobler nature.
He had loved Lelia faithfully all his life, chiefly because he had been
anxiously tutored to it, and again because she was very beautiful in a
radiant blond style, and could be very fascinating when she chose.
But he was not blind to her faults of heart and mind.
He knew she was violent-tempered, jealous, selfish, and domineering,
but he had kept on, trusting to the influence of his own nobler nature
to counteract the deformities of her mind, making every possible excuse
for a spoiled girl, who had been given her own way in everything, and
flattered in society until her vanity and selfishness had distorted her
whole nature.
But the exhibition of this morning had appalled him, with its
possibilities of disaster to his future. He asked himself in alarm what
sort of a wife was this fair vixen going to make for a man who loved
peace and tranquillity.
A heavy sigh breathed over his lips just as Lelia entered, a vision
of delight in her stylish gown of blue organdie and white lace, with
fluttering ribbons, her golden hair fluffed up like an aureole to frame
her pearl-fair face.
“Oh, Laurie, how glum you look, my dear! Getting a foretaste already of
the horrors of The Crags!” she cried gaily, pausing at his side with
her white, ringed hand on his shoulder.
“I own I was lonely till you came,” he confessed, slipping his arm
about her waist, with secret relief at the brightness of her face,
believing her anger had blown over like the storm.
“You were sitting here pulling me to pieces in your mind, groaning over
my naughtiness. Don’t deny it, your eyes betray your guilt!” she added
banteringly.
“I cannot help but deplore your high temper, Lelia,” he answered
gravely.
An expression of repentance saddened her red lips instantly, and she
murmured sweetly:
“Oh, Laurie darling, you cannot deplore it more than I do. But surely
you can overlook this morning. Remember what a fright I had, and that I
was nervous and overwrought. Now I feel like myself again, and I wish
to beg your pardon for my hasty words.”
His answer was like gall and wormwood to her heart:
“I do not mind so much for myself, Lelia, as for that poor girl who
saved our lives, and whom you insulted by cruel, ungrateful words. If
you wish to please me very much you will say to her all that you have
just said to me.”
She recoiled in angry amazement:
“You would have me--me, Lelia Ritchie, your promised wife--humble
myself to apologize to a gipsy foundling, no better than a servant, for
a hasty word! Laurie, you must be losing your mind.”
“I certainly shall unless you bridle your undisciplined temper, Lelia!”
he returned, in impatient wrath, taking his arm quickly from her waist,
and springing to his feet in deep disgust.
The sudden entrance of Miss Willoughby created a diversion to a scene
that threatened to become highly sensational.
Laurie dropped into a seat and made talk by inquiring into the
progress of the “Willoughby Memoirs,” and the old lady thus launched
into her favorite theme, talked on for an hour, affording Lelia ample
opportunity to recover her equanimity by joining in with apparent
smiling interest.
At a momentary lull in the conversation, she said carelessly:
“Tell me all about the house-party that will come to-morrow.”
“There are just eight--Captain Thurston and his wife, she will assist
me in chaperone duty, you know. Then there are Irene Mays, Bessie Hall,
Zaidee Preston, Geoffrey Graves, Warren Beihl, and Roy Van Vleck. You
know some of them, I believe?”
“I have met them all at different times, and all are pleasant people. I
am sure we shall have a charming time,” Lelia replied, with pretended
pleasure.
“And, by the way, that reminds me I must write a letter this
afternoon,” cried the old lady, rising quickly, then exclaiming: “Oh,
dear, I cannot do it till Gipsy comes home. Really, I think it is time
she was here. Of course, she had to go under shelter till the storm was
over, but the sun has been shining two hours now. It is very strange
she remains away so long.”
“Let me write your letter, aunt,” exclaimed Laurie eagerly.
“No, I will wait for Gipsy,” she replied.
But she would have a wearier waiting than she knew.
For the summer twilight fell, and the stars came out, but Gipsy did not
return.
By this time the mistress of The Crags began to grow uneasy.
“Such a thing has never happened before. Gipsy has never stayed out
after dark,” she said, and questioned Laurie closely as to her strange
disappearance.
“She darted suddenly behind some rocks, and I drove on, thinking
she had sought a shelter from the storm,” he said, adding with some
embarrassment:
“My first impulse was to ask her to get into the carriage and drive
with Lelia, and let me walk, but I knew Lelia would raise an objection.”
The young lady would have spoken for herself here, had she been
present, but she was in the distant music-room, playing snatches of
dreamy waltz music.
Miss Willoughby exclaimed:
“I shall send two of the men servants to look for her. She may have
fallen down and crippled herself. There’s no telling what has happened.
Do you think you can tell the men where you saw her last, Laurie?”
“I will go and show them,” he replied.
“But Lelia would be displeased,” she said hesitatingly.
“In a case like this I must risk her displeasure,” he replied sternly.
“I believe you are right. Lelia is inclined to be unreasonable,
anyway,” said the old lady, adding: “Perhaps it may not be necessary
to tell her about it. I can just say you went out for a walk. If you
are ready we will start the men at once to get a light trap ready in
which to bring her home; for I have a presentiment that something has
happened to Gipsy.”
Without further delay the little searching-party set forth on their
errand, quite unknown to Lelia, who was still at the piano, wondering
why Laurie remained outside so long with his cigar.
She sang softly a little song of love and pain, fancying it would
call him quickly back to her side; but he was already out of hearing,
driving down the mountain road with a strangely heavy heart, wondering
what had become of the hapless missing girl.
As for poor Gipsy, she was wondering on her side what had become of
everybody else in the world, that no one came to seek for her in her
forlorn strait.
Turning away from him in grief and bitterness at Lelia’s cruel words,
she had not hinted that she was hurt, Satan having struck her knee
accidentally with his forefoot when she sprang at his bit to drag him
down.
She had let them drive on, believing she could follow by a short cut,
but she knew she could not walk ten steps farther, so keen was the
agony of the bruised limb, even while she had smiled up bravely into
Laurie’s face.
Turning quickly aside, she had darted into a cleft in the rocky wall
known only to herself, where she could shelter herself from the storm,
and watch for the wagon with the trunks, so as to ride home.
But the storm raged a while so fiercely that the wagon remained at the
station, and by and by Gipsy’s limb began to swell, growing more and
more painful, so that at last, with a little gasp of agony, she fainted
dead away.
She must have lain unconscious a long time, for it was late afternoon
when she awoke to remembrance again, and the storm had cleared away as
if by magic.
The pain in her limb was intense when she tried to stand on it, or even
to crawl, so she fell back against the cold stone wall, and strained
her eyes for some passer-by.
In vain, for it was a lonely road, and no one happened by after the
wagon had passed during her fainting spell.
The sun set red in the west, the gray gloaming hid the sky, the tuwhit
of the owl and the plaintive call of the whippoorwill came from the
dark woods, mingling with the ripple of the river, and Gipsy, always
more or less alone, felt like one in a world of shadows condemned to
everlasting solitude.
She wondered if any one at The Crags missed her, and watched for her
coming, but she decided it could not be, because they would be too
engrossed in their grand visitors to remember poor Gipsy, the waif. No
one loved her now, since Jane was gone West with her husband, and Mrs.
Bond dead and lying at rest in a corner of the family burying-ground of
the Willoughbys, whose white tomb-stone she could see glimmering from
her windows every night.