CHAPTER VII.
THE CYPRESS WREATH
"Bride, upon thy marriage-day,
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
On thy cheek like waving flame,
Flowed that crimson from the unrest,
Or the gladness of thy breast?" – Hemans.
"Squire Erliston, can I have a few moments' private conversation with you this morning?" said Oranmore, as he sought the squire, whom Mrs. Gower was just helping to ensconce in his easy-chair.
"Certainly, certainly, my boy. Mrs. Gower, bring the rest of the pillows by and by. 'Time for everything,' as Solomon says. Clear out now, ma'am, while I attend to this young man's case."
Barry Oranmore stood in the middle of the floor, resting one hand lightly on the back of a chair. Squire Erliston, propped up in an easy-chair with pillows and cushions, and wearing an unusually benign expression of countenance – caused, probably, by Miss Aurora's extraordinary quietness on that morning.
"You have doubtless perceived, sir, my attentions to your daughter," went on the young man, in a tone that was almost careless. "Miss Lizzie, I am happy to say, returns my affection; and, in short, sir, I have asked this interview to solicit your daughter's hand."
He bowed slightly, and stood awaiting a reply. The squire jumped from his seat, kicked one pillow to the other end of the room, waved another above his head, and shouted:
"Bless my soul! it's just what I wanted! Give us your hand, my dear boy. Solicit her hand! Take it, take it, with all my heart. If she had a dozen of hands, you should have them all."
"I thank you sincerely, Squire Erliston. Believe me, it only needed your consent to our union to fill my cup of happiness to the brim."
His voice was low – almost scornful; and the emphasis upon "happiness" was bitter, indeed. But the squire, in his delight, neither heeded nor noticed.
"The wedding must come off immediately, my dear fellow. We'll have a rousing one, and no mistake. I was afraid Liz might run off with some penniless scamp, as Esther did; but now it's all right. Yes, the sooner the wedding comes off the better. 'He who giveth not his daughter in marriage, doeth well; but he who giveth her doeth better,' as Solomon ought to know, seeing he had some thousands of 'em. Be off now, and arrange with Lizzie the day for the wedding, while I take a sleep. When it's all over, wake me up. There, go! Mrs. Gower! hallo! Mrs. Gower, I say! come here with the pillows."
Oranmore hurried out, while Mrs. Gower hurried in – he to tell Lizzie of the success of his mission, and she to prepare her master for the arms of Morpheus.
That day fortnight was fixed upon as their marriage-day. The Bishop of P – was to visit St. Mark's, and during his advent in the village the nuptials were to be celebrated.
And such a busy place as Sunset Hall became after the important fact was announced! Poor Mrs. Gower lost, perceptibly, fifty pounds of flesh, with running in and out, and up and down stairs. Old carpets and old servants were turned out, and new curtains and French cooks turned in. Carpets and custards, and ice-creams and Aurora's screams, and milliners and feathers, and flowers and flounces, and jellies and jams, and upholstery reigned supreme, until the squire swore by all the "fiends in flames" that it was worse than pandemonium, and rushed from the place in despair to seek refuge with Giles Fox, and smoke his pipe in peace at the "Eagle."
Barry Oranmore, finding his bride so busily engaged superintending jewels, and satins, and laces, as to be able to dispense with his services, mounted his horse each day, and seldom returned before night. And, amid all the bustle and confusion, no one noticed that he grew thinner and paler day after day; nor the deep melancholy filling his dark eyes; nor the bitter, self-scorning look his proud, handsome face ever wore. They knew not how he paced up and down his room, night after night, trying to still the sound of one voice that was ever mournfully calling his name. They knew not that when he quitted the brilliantly-lighted rooms, and plunged into the deep, dark forest, it was to shut out the sight of a sad, reproachful face, that ever haunted him, day and night.
Lizzie was in her glory, flitting about like a bird from morning till night. Such wonderful things as she had manufactured out of white satin and Mechlin lace, and such confusion as she caused – flying through the house, boxing the servants' ears, and lecturing Mrs. Gower and shaking Aurora – who had leave now to yell to her heart's content – and turning everything topsy-turvy, until the squire brought down his fist with a thump, and declared that though Solomon had said there was a time for everything, neither Solomon, nor any other man, could ever convince him that there was a time allotted for such a racket and rumpus as that.
But out of chaos, long ago, was brought forth order; and the "eve before the bridal" everything in Sunset Hall was restored to peace and quietness once more. The rooms were perfectly dazzling with the glitter of new furniture and the blaze of myriads of lusters. And such a crowd as on the wedding night filled those splendid rooms! There was Mrs. Gower, magnificent in brown velvet, preserved for state occasions like the present, with such a miraculous combination of white ribbons and lace on her head. There was the squire, edifying the public generally with copious extracts from Solomon and some that were not from Solomon. There was Mrs. Oranmore, grim and gray as ever, moving like the guilty shadow of a lost soul, through those gorgeous rooms and that glittering crowd, with the miserable feeling at her heart, that her only son was to be offered that night a sacrifice on the altar of her pride and ambition. There was Doctor Wiseman, all legs and arms, as usual, slinking among the guests. There was the bishop, a fat, pompous, oily-looking gentleman, in full canonicals, waiting to tie the Gordian knot.
There was a bustle near the door, a swaying to and fro of the crowd, and the bridal party entered. Every voice was instantaneously hushed, every eye was fixed upon them. How beautiful the bride looked, with her elegant robes and gleaming jewels, her downcast eyes, and rose-flushed cheeks, and half-smiling lips. The eyes of all the gentlemen present were fixed wistfully upon her. And the eyes of the ladies wandered to the bridegroom, with something very like a feeling of awe, as they saw how pale and cold he was looking – how different from any bridegroom they had ever seen before. Were his thoughts wandering to another bridal, in a land beyond the sea, with one for whose blue eyes and golden hair he would then willingly have surrendered fame, and wealth, and ambition? And now, she who had left friends, and home, and country for his sake, was deserted for another. Yet still that unknown, penniless girl was dearer than all the world beside. Well might he look and feel unlike a bridegroom, with but one image filling his heart, but one name on his lips – "Eveleen! Eveleen!"
But no one there could read the heart, throbbing so tumultuously beneath that cold, proud exterior. They passed through the long rooms – the bishop stood before them – the service began. To him it seemed like the service for the dead – to her it was the most delightful thing in the world. There was fluttering of fans, flirting of perfumed handkerchiefs, smiling lips and eyes, and
"With decorum all things carried;
Miss smiled, and blushed, and then was – married."
The ceremony was over, and Lizzie Erliston was Lizzie Erliston no longer.
But just at that moment, when the crowd around were about to press forward to offer their congratulations, a loud, ringing footstep, that sounded as though shod with steel, was heard approaching. A moment more, and an uninvited guest stood among them. The tall, thin, sharp, angular figure of a woman past middle age, with a grim, weird, old-maidenish face; a stiff, rustling dress of iron-gray; a black net cap over her grizzled locks, and a tramp like that of a dragoon, completed the external of this rather unprepossessing figure.
All fell back and made way for her, while a murmur: "Miss Hagar! What brings Miss Hagar here?" passed through the room.
She advanced straight to where Lizzie stood, leaning proudly and fondly on the arm of Oranmore, and drawing forth a wreath of mingled cypress and dismal yew, laid it amid the orange blossoms on the head of the bride.
With a shriek of superstitious terror, Lizzie tore the ominous wreath from her head, and flung it on the floor. Heeding not the action, the woman raised her long, gaunt, fleshless arm like an inspired sibyl, and chanted in a voice so wild and dreary, that every heart stood still:
"Oh, bride! woe to thee!
Ere the spring leaves deck the tree,
Those locks you now with jewels twine
Shall wear this cypress wreath of mine."
Then striding through the awe-struck crowd, she passed out and disappeared.
Faint and sick with terror, Lizzie hid her face in the arm that supported her. A moment's silence ensued, broken by the squire, who came stamping along, exclaiming:
"Hallo! what's the matter here! Have either of these good people repented of their bargain, already. 'Better late than never,' as Solomon says."
"It was only my sister Hagar, who came here to predict fortunes, as usual," said Doctor Wiseman, with an uneasy attempt at a laugh, "and succeeded in scaring Miss Lizzie – Mrs. Oranmore, I mean – half out of her wits."
"Pooh! pooh! is that all. Liz, don't be such a little fool! There goes the music. Let every youngster be off, on penalty of death, to the dancing-room. 'Time to dance,' as Solomon says, and if it's not at weddings, I'd like to know when it is. Clear!"
Thus adjured, with a great deal of laughing and chatting, the company dispersed. The folding-doors flew open, and merry feet were soon tripping gayly to the music, and flirting, and laughing, and love-making, and ice-creams were soon at their height, and Lizzie, as she floated airily around the room in the waltz, soon forgot all about Miss Hagar's prediction. Barry Oranmore, by an effort, shook off his gloom, and laughed with the merriest, and waltzed with his bride, and the pretty bride-maids; and all the time his heart was far away with that haunting shape that had stood by his side all the night.
A month had passed away. Their bridal tour had been a short one, and the newly wedded pair had returned to Sunset Hall. And Lizzie was at last beginning to open her eyes, and wonder what ailed her husband. So silent, so absent, so restless, growing more and more so day after day. His long rides over the hills were now taken alone; and he would only return to lie on a lounge in some darkened room, with his face hidden from view by his long, neglected locks. At first she pouted a little at this; but seeing it produced no effect, she at last concluded to let him have his own way, and she would take hers. So evening after evening, while he lay alone, so still and motionless, in his darkened chamber, Lizzie frequented parties and soirees, giving plausible excuses for her husband's absence, and was the gayest of the gay.
One morning, returning with the gray dawn, from an unusually brilliant soiree, she inquired for her husband, and learned that, half an hour before, he had called for his horse and ridden off. This did not surprise her, for it had often happened so before; so, without giving the matter a second thought, she flung herself on her bed, and fell fast asleep.
Half an hour after the sound of many feet, and a confused murmur of many voices below, fell on her ear.
Wondering what it could mean, she raised herself on her elbow to listen, when the door was burst open; and Totty, gray, gasping, horror-stricken, stood before her.
"Totty, what in the name of heaven is the matter!" exclaimed Lizzie, in surprise and alarm.
"Oh, missus! Oh, missus!" were the only words the frightened negress could utter.
"Merciful heaven! what has happened?" exclaimed Lizzie, springing to her feet, in undefined terror. "Totty, Totty, tell me, or I shall go and see."
"Oh, Miss Lizzie! Oh, Miss Lizzie!" cried the girl, falling on her knees, "for de dear Lord's sake, don't go. Oh, Miss Lizzie, it's too drefful to tell! It would kill you!"
With a wild cry, Lizzie snatched her robe from the clinging hands that held it, and fled from the room down the long staircase. There was a crowd round the parlor door; all the servants were collected there, and inside she could see many of the neighbors gathered. She strove to force her way through the throng of appalled servants, who mechanically made way for her to pass.
"Keep her back – keep her back, I tell you," cried the voice of Dr. Wiseman, "would you kill her?"
A score of hands were extended to keep her back, but they were too late. She had entered, and a sight met her eyes that sent the blood curdling with horror to her heart. A wild, terrific shriek rang through the house, as she threw up both arms and fell, in strong convulsions, on the floor.
CHAPTER VIII.
Gipsy
"A little, wild-eyed, tawny child,
A fairy sprite, untamed and wild,
Like to no one save herself,
A laughing, mocking, gipsy elf."
Year after year glides away, and we wonder vaguely that they can have passed. On our way to the grave we may meet many troubles, but time obliterates them all, and we learn to laugh and talk as merrily again as though the grass was not growing between our face and one we could never love enough. But such is life.
Ten years have passed away at St. Mark's since the close of our last chapter; ten years of dull, tedious monotony. The terrible sight that had met Lizzie Oranmore's eyes that morning, was the dead form of her young husband. He had been riding along at his usual reckless, headlong pace, and had been thrown from his horse and killed.
Under the greensward in the village church-yard, they laid his world-weary form to rest, with only the name inscribed on the cold, white marble to tell he had ever existed. And no one dreamed of the youthful romance that had darkened all the life of Barry Oranmore. Lying on the still heart, that had once beat so tumultuously, they found the miniature of a fair young face and a long tress of sunny hair. Wondering silently to whom they belonged, good Mrs. Gower laid them aside, little dreaming of what they were one day to discover.
Lizzie, with her usual impulsiveness, wept and sobbed for a time inconsolably. But it was not in her shallow, thoughtless nature to grieve long for any one; and ere a year had passed, she laughed as gayly and sang as merrily as ever.
Sometimes, it may be, when her child – her boy – would look up in her face with the large dark eyes of him who had once stolen her girlish heart away, tears for a moment would weigh down her golden eyelashes; but the next instant the passing memory was forgotten, and her laugh again rang out merry and clear.
And so the ten years had passed, and no change had taken place at Sunset Hall save that it was far from being the quiet place it had been formerly.
Has the reader forgotten Aurora, the little foundling of yelling notoriety? If so, it is no fault of hers, for that shrill-voiced young lady never allowed herself to be pushed aside to make room for any one. Those ten years at least made a change in her.
See her now, as she stands with her dog by her side, for a moment, to rest, in the quaint old porch fronting Sunset Hill. She has been romping with Lion this morning, and now, panting and breathless, she pauses for an instant to prepare for a fresh race. There she stands! A little, slight, wiry, agile figure, a little thin, dark, but bright and sparkling face, with small, irregular features, never for a moment at rest. With a shower of short, crisp, dark curls streaming in the breeze, every shining ring dancing with life, and fire, and mirth, and mischief. And with such eyes, looking in her face you forgot every other feature gazing in those "bonny wells of brown," that seemed fairly scintillating wickedness. How they did dance, and flash, and sparkle, with youth, and glee, and irrepressible fun – albeit the darker flame that now and then leaped from their shining depths bespoke a wild, fierce spirit, untamed and daring, slumbering in her heart, quiet and unaroused as yet, but which would one day burst forth, scathing, blighting all on whom it fell.
And such is Aurora Gower. A wild, dark, elfish changeling, not at all pretty, but the most bewitching sprite withal, that ever kept a household in confusion. Continually getting into scrapes and making mischief, and doing deeds that would have been unpardonable in any one else, Aurora, in some mysterious way of her own, escaped censure, and the most extravagant actions were passed over with the remark, that it was "just like her – just what you might expect from a gipsy." Owing to her dark skin and wild habits, "Gipsy" was the name by which Mrs. Gower's protegee was universally known. With every one she was a favorite, for though always saucy, often impertinent, and invariably provoking, it was impossible to be angry with a little fairy of a creature whom they could almost hold up between their finger and thumb.
As for the burly old squire, he could as soon think of getting along without his brandy as without Gipsy. For though they continually quarreled, he abusing her unmercifully, and she retorting impudently, yet, when Gipsy at the end would flounce out in a towering passion, she was sure a few hours after to find a peace-offering from the old man, in the shape of a costly gift, lying on her table. After some coaxing she would consent to forgive him, and Squire Erliston and his little ward would smoke the calumet of peace (figuratively speaking); but, alas! for the short-lived truce – ere another hour the war of words would be raging "fast and furious" once more.
Good Mrs. Gower zealously strove to impress on the wayward elf a becoming respect for the head of the household; and sometimes, in a fit of penitence, Aurora would promise "not to give Guardy any more bile," but being by nature woefully deficient in the bump of reverence, the promise had never been kept; and at last the worthy housekeeper gave up the task in despair.
And so Aurora was left pretty much to follow her "own sweet will," and no one need wonder that she grew up the maddest, merriest elf that ever danced in the moonlight. At the age of eleven she could ride with the best horseman for miles around, hunt like a practiced sportsman, bring down a bird on the wing with her unerring bullet, and manage a boat with the smartest fisherman in St. Marks. Needle-work, dolls, and other amusements suitable for her age, she regarded with the utmost contempt, and with her curls streaming behind her, her hat swinging in her hand, she might be seen flying about the village from morning till night, always running, for she was too quick and impetuous to walk. In the stormiest weather, when the winds were highest and the sea roughest, she would leap into one of the fishermen's boats, and unheeding storm and danger, go out with them, in spite of commands and entreaties to the contrary, until danger and daring became with her second nature. But while Aurora has been standing for her picture the rest of the family have assembled in the breakfast-parlor of Mount Sunset Hall. Languidly stretched on a sofa lay Lizzie Oranmore. Those ten years have made no change in her; just the same rose-leaf complexion, the same round, little graceful figure, the same coquettish airs and graces as when we saw her last. She might readily have been taken for the elder sister of her son, Louis, who stood by the window sketching the view before him.
There was a striking resemblance between Louis and his dead father; the same clear, olive complexion, the same sable locks and bold black eyes, the same scornful, curving upper lip, and the same hot, rash, impetuous nature. But with all his fiery impetuosity he was candid, open and generous, the soul of honor and frankness, but with a nature which, according as it was trained, must be powerful for good or evil.
Sitting propped up in an easy-chair, with his gouty leg, swathed in flannel, stretched on two chairs, was the squire, looking in no very sweet frame of mind. The morning paper, yet damp from the press, lay before him; but the squire's attention would wander from it every moment to the door.
"Where's that little wretch this morning?" broke out the squire, at last, throwing down his paper impatiently.
"I really can't say," replied Lizzie, opening her eyes languidly. "I saw her racing over the hills this morning, with those dreadful dogs of hers. I expect she will be back soon."
"And we must wait for her ladyship!" growled the squire. "I'll cane her within an inch of her life if she doesn't learn to behave herself. 'Spare the child and spoil the rod,' as Solomon says."
"Here she comes!" exclaimed Louis, looking up. "Speak of Satan and he'll appear."
"Satan! She's no Satan, I'd have you know, you young jackanapes!" said the squire, angrily, for though always abusing the "little vixen," Aurora, himself, he would suffer no one else to do it.
"Look, look how she dashes along!" exclaimed Louis, with kindling eyes, unheeding the reproof. "There! she has leaped her pony over the gate, and now she is standing up in her saddle; and – bravo! well done, Gipsy! She has actually sprung over black Jupe's head in a flying leap."
While he spoke Gipsy came running up the lawn toward the house, singing, in a high, shrill voice, as she ran:
"He died long, long ago, long ago —
He had no hair on the top of his head,
The place where the wool ought to grow,
Lay down the shovel and the hoe-o-o,
Hang up – "
"Stop that, stop that, you vixen! Stop it, I tell you, or I'll hang you up!" said the squire, angrily. "Where do you learn those vulgar doggerels?"
"Make 'em up, Guardy – every one of 'em. Ain't I a genius?"
"I don't believe it, you scapegrace."
"No wonder you don't, seeing there never was a genius in the family before; but 'better late than never,' you know."
"None of your impertinence, miss. Give an account of yourself, if you please. Where were you this morning? Answer me that!"
"Nowhere, sir."
"Don't tell stories, you little sinner. Where is nowhere?"
"Over to Doctor Spider's."
"Gipsy, my dear, why will you persist in calling Doctor Wiseman nicknames?" remonstrated Lizzie.
"Why, Aunt Liz, because he's just like a spider, for all the world – all legs," flippantly replied Gipsy.
"And what business had you there, monkey? Didn't I tell you not to go? I thought I told you never to go there!" said the squire, in rising wrath.
"Know it, Guardy, and that's just the reason I went."
"Because I forbade you, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"You – you – you disobedient little hussy, you! Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"Ashamed! – what of? I haven't got the gout in my leg."
"Gipsy, you dreadful child, hush!" said Lizzie, in alarm.
"Oh, let her go on! She's just as you taught her, madam. And as to you, Miss Gipsy, or Aurora, or whatever your name is, let me tell you, the gout is nothing to be ashamed of. It runs in the most respectable families, miss."
"Lord, Guardy! What a pity I can't have it, too, and help to keep up the respectability of the family!"
Louis turned to the window, and struggled violently with a laugh, which he endeavored to change into a cough, and the laugh and cough meeting, produced a choking sensation. This sent Gipsy to his aid, who, after administering sundry thumps on his back with her little closed fists, restored him to composure, and the squire returned to the charge.
"And now, to 'return to our mutton,' as Solomon says; or – hold on a minute – was it Solomon who said that?"
The squire paused, and placed his finger reflectively on the point of his nose, in deep thought; but being unable to decide, he looked up, and went on:
"Yes, miss, as I was saying, what took you over to Deep Dale so early this morning? Tell me that."
"Well, if I must, I must, I s'pose – so here goes."
"Hallo, Gipsy!" interrupted Louis. "Take care – you're making poetry."
"No, sir! I scorn the accusation!" said Gipsy, drawing herself up. "But, Guardy, since I must tell you, I went over to see – ahem! – Archie!"
"You did!" grunted Guardy. "Humph! humph! humph!"
"Don't take it so much to heart, Guardy. No use grieving – 'specially as the grief might settle in your poor afflicted leg – limb, I mean."
"And may I ask, young lady, what you could possibly want with him?" said the squire, sternly.
"Oh, fifty things! He's my beau, you know."
"Your beau! —your beau! – your BEAU! My conscience!"
"Yes, sir, we're engaged."
"You are? 'Oh, Jupiter,' as Solomon says. Pray, madam (for such I presume you consider yourself), when will you be twelve years old?"
"Oh, as soon as I can. I don't want to be an old maid."
"So it seems, you confounded little Will-o'-the-wisp. And will you be good enough to inform us how this precious engagement came about?" said the squire, with a savage frown.
"With pleasure, sir. You see, we went out to gather grapes in the wood one day, and we had a splendiferous time. And says I, 'Archie, ain't this nice?' – and says he 'Yes' – and says I, 'Wouldn't it be nice if we'd get married?' – and says he, 'Yes' – and says I, 'Will you have me, though?' – and says he, 'Yes' – and says I – "
"'Ain't we a precious pair of fools?' and says he, 'Yes,'" interrupted the squire, mimicking her. "Oh, you're a nice gal – you're a pretty young lady!"
"Yes, ain't I, now? You and I are of one opinion there, exactly. Ain't you proud of me?"
"Proud of you, you barefaced little wretch! I'd like to twist your neck for you!" thundered the squire.
"Better not, Guardy; you'd be hung for man-slaughter if you did, you know."
"You don't call yourself a man, I hope!" said Louis.
"Well, if I don't, I'm a girl – which is a thousand times nicer. And speaking of girls, reminds me that Miss Hagar's got the dearest, darlingest, beautifulest little girl you ever set your eyes on."
"Miss Hagar?" they all exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes, to be sure. Law! you needn't look so astonished; this is a free country. And why can't Miss Hagar have a little girl, if she wants to, as well as anybody else, I'd like to know?" exclaimed Gipsy, rather indignantly.
"To be sure," said Louis, who took the same view of the case as Gipsy.
"Where did she get it? – whose little girl is it?" inquired Lizzie, slightly roused from her languor by the news.
"Don't know, I'm sure; nobody don't. She was off somewhere poking round all day yesterday, and came home at night with this little girl. Oh, Louis, she's such a dear little thing!"
"Is she?" said Louis, absently.
"Yes, indeed – with a face like double-refined moonlight, and long, yellow hair, and blue eyes, and pink dress, and cheeks to match. She's twice as pretty as Minette; and Miss Hagar's going to keep her, and teach her to tell fortunes, I expect."
"I wonder Dr. Wiseman allows Miss Hagar to fill the house with little beggars," said Lizzie.
"Oh, Spider's got nothing to do with it. Miss Hagar has money of her own, and can keep her if she likes. Pity if she'd have to ask permission of that 'thing of legs and arms,' everything she wants to do."
"Gipsy, my dear, you really must not speak so of Dr. Wiseman: it's positively shocking," said the highly-scandalized Mrs. Oranmore.
"Well, I don't care; he is a 'thing of legs and arms.' There, now!"
"What's the little girl's name, Gipsy?" inquired Louis.
"Celeste– isn't it pretty? And she – oh, she's a darling, and no mistake. Wouldn't I marry her if I was a man – maybe I wouldn't."
"What's her other name?"
"Got none – at least she said so; and, as I didn't like to tell her she told a story, I asked Miss Hagar, and she told me to mind my own business; yes, she actually did. Nobody minds how they talk to me. People haven't a bit of respect for me; and I have to put up with sass from every one. I won't stand it much longer, either. There!"
"No, I wouldn't advise you to," said Louis. "Better sit down; no use in standing it."
"Wiseman's a fool if he lets that crazy tramp, his sister, support beggars in his house," exclaimed the squire, in a threatening tone. "Lunatics like her should not be allowed to go at large. He has no business to permit it."
"I'd like to see him trying to stop it," said Gipsy. "I'd be in his wool."
"You!" said the squire, contemptuously. "What could a little Tom Thumb in petticoats, like you, do?"
"Look here, now, Guardy, don't call a lady names. When you speak of Tom Thumb, you know, it's getting personal. What could I do? Why, I'd set his house on fire some night about his ears, or some day, when out shooting, a bullet might strike him accidentally on purpose. It takes me to defend injured innocence," said Gipsy, getting up, and squaring-off in an attitude of defiance, as she exclaimed: "Come on, old Wiseman, I'm ready for you!"
"Well, I can't allow you to associate with beggars. You must never go to Deep Dale again. I can't countenance his proceedings. If he choose to make a fool of himself, it's no reason why I should do so too."
"None in the world, sir – especially as nature has saved you that trouble."
"You audacious little demon, you! what do you mean?"
"Ahem! I was just observing, sir, that it's time for breakfast," said Gipsy, demurely.
"Humph! humph! well, ring for Mrs. Gower, and hold your tongue."
"Sorry I can't oblige you, Guardy. But how can I hold my tongue and eat?"
"I wish I could find something to take the edge off it; it's altogether too sharp," growled the old man to himself.
Mrs. Gower, fat and good-natured as ever, entered at this moment; and, as they assembled round the table, the squire – who, though he generally got the worst of the argument, would never let Gipsy rest – again resumed the subject.
"Mind, monkey, you're not to go to Deep Dale again; I forbid you – positively forbid you."
"Lor! Guardy, you don't say so!"
"Don't be disrespectful, minx. If I'm your guardian, you shall obey me. You heard me say so before, didn't you?"