CAP'S TRICKS AND PERILS.
I'll be merry and free,
I'll be sad for naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
I care for naebody.
—Burns.
The next day, according to agreement, the pastor came and dined at Hurricane Hall. During the dinner he had ample opportunity of observing Capitola.
In the afternoon Major Warfield took an occasion of leaving him alone with the contumacious young object of his visit.
Cap, with her quick perceptions, instantly discovered the drift and purpose of this action, which immediately provoked all the mischievous propensities of her elfish spirit.
"Uncle means that I shall be lectured by the good parson. If he preaches to me, won't I humor him 'to the top of his bent?'—that's all," was her secret resolution, as she sat demurely, with pursed-up lips, bending over her needlework.
The honest and well-meaning old country clergyman hitched his chair a little nearer to the perverse young rebel, and gingerly—for he was half afraid of his questionable subject—entered into conversation with her.
To his surprise and pleasure, Capitola replied with the decorum of a young nun.
Encouraged by her manner, the good minister went on to say how much interested he felt in her welfare; how deeply he compassionated her lot in never having possessed the advantage of a mother's teaching; how anxious he was by his counsels to make up to her as much as possible such a deficiency.
Here Capitola put up both her hands and dropped her face upon them.
Still farther encouraged by this exhibition of feeling, Mr. Goodwin went on. He told her that it behooved her, who was a motherless girl, to be even more circumspect than others, lest, through very ignorance, she might err; and in particular he warned her against riding or walking out alone, or indulging in any freedom of manners that might draw upon her the animadversions of their very strict community.
"Oh, sir, I know I have been very indiscreet, and I am very miserable," said Capitola, in a heart-broken voice.
"My dear child, your errors have hitherto been those of ignorance only, and I am very much pleased to find how much your good uncle has been mistaken, and how ready you are to do strictly right when the way is pointed out," said the minister, pleased to his honest heart's core that he had made this deep impression.
A heavy sigh burst from the bosom of Capitola.
"What is the matter, my dear child?" he said, kindly.
"Oh, sir, if I had only known you before!" exclaimed Capitola, bitterly.
"Why, my dear? I can do just as much good now."
"Oh, no, sir; it is too late; it is too late!"
"It is never to late to do well."
"Oh, yes, sir; it is for me! Oh, how I wish I had had your good counsel before; it would have saved me from so much trouble."
"My dear child, you make me seriously uneasy; do explain yourself," said the old pastor, drawing his chair closer to hers and trying to get a look at the distressed little face that was bowed down upon her hands and veiled with her hair; "do tell me, my dear, what is the matter."
"Oh, sir, I am afraid to tell you; you'd hate and despise me; you'd never speak to me again," said Capitola, keeping her face concealed.
"My dear child," said the minister, very gravely and sorrowfully, "whatever your offense has been, and you make me fear that it has been a very serious one, I invite you to confide it to me, and, having done so, I promise, however I may mourn the sin, not to 'hate,' or 'despise,' or forsake the sinner. Come, confide in me."
"Oh, sir, I daren't! indeed I daren't!" moaned Capitola.
"My poor girl!" said the minister, "if I am to do you any good it is absolutely necessary that you make me your confidant."
"Oh, sir, I have been a very wicked girl; I daren't tell you how wicked I have been!"
"Does your good uncle know or suspect this wrongdoing of yours?"
"Uncle! Oh, no, sir! He'd turn me out of doors! He'd kill me! Indeed he would, sir! Please don't tell him!"
"You forget, my child, that I do not yet know the nature of your offense," said the minister, in a state of painful anxiety.
"But I am going to inform you, sir; and oh! I hope you will take pity on me and tell me what to do; for though I dread to speak, I can't keep it on my conscience any longer, it is such a heavy weight on my breast!"
"Sin always is, my poor girl," said the pastor, with a deep moan.
"But, sir, you know I had no mother, as you said yourself."
"I know it, my poor girl, and am ready to make every allowance," said the old pastor, with a deep sigh, not knowing what next to expect.
"And—and—I hope you will forgive me, sir; but—but he was so handsome I couldn't help liking him!"
"Miss Black!" cried the horrified pastor.
"There! I knew you'd just go and bite my head off the very first thing! Oh, dear, what shall I do?" sobbed Capitola.
The good pastor, who had started to his feet, remained gazing upon her in a panic of consternation, murmuring to himself:
"Good angel! I am fated to hear more great sins than if I were a prison chaplain!" Then, going up to the sobbing delinquent he said:
"Unhappy girl! who is this person of whom you speak?"
"H—h—h—him that I met when I went walking in the woods," sobbed Capitola.
"Heaven of heavens! this is worse than my very worst fears! Wretched girl! Tell me instantly the name of this base deceiver!"
"He—he—he's no base deceiver; he—he—he's very amiable and good-looking; and—and—and that's why I liked him so much; it was all my fault, not his, poor, dear fellow!"
"His name?" sternly demanded the pastor.
"Alf—Alf—Alfred," wept Capitola.
"Alfred whom?"
"Alfred Blen—Blen—Blenheim!"
"Miserable girl! how often have you met this miscreant in the forest?"
"I—don't—know!" sobbed Capitola.
"Where is the wretch to be found now?"
"Oh, please don't hurt him, sir! Please don't! He—he—he's hid in the closet in my room."
A groan that seemed to have rent his heart in twain burst from the bosom of the minister, as he repeated in deepest horror:
"In your room! (Well, I must prevent murder being done!) Did you not know, you poor child, the danger you ran by giving this young man private interviews; and, above all, admitting him to your apartment? Wretched girl! better you'd never been born than ever so to have received a man!"
"Man! man! man!—I'd like to know what you mean by that, Mr. Goodwin!" exclaimed Capitola, lifting her eyes flashing through their tears.
"I mean the man with whom you have given these private interviews."
"I!—I give private interviews to a man! Take care what you say, Mr. Goodwin; I won't be insulted; no, not even by you!"
"Then, if you are not talking of a man, who or what in the world are you talking about?" exclaimed the amazed minister.
"Why, Alfred, the Blenheim poodle that strayed away from some of the neighbors' houses, and that I found in the woods and brought home and hid in my closet, for fear he would be inquired after, or uncle would find it out and make me give him up. I knew it was wrong, but then he was so pretty——"
Before Capitola had finished her speech Mr. Goodwin had seized his hat and rushed out of the house in indignation, nearly overturning Old Hurricane, whom he met on the lawn, and to whom he said:
"Thrash that girl as if she were a bay boy, for she richly deserves it!"
"There! what did I say? Now you see what a time I have with her; she makes me sweat, I can tell you," said Old Hurricane, in triumph.
"Oh! oh! oh!" groaned the sorely-tried minister.
"What's it now?" inquired Old Hurricane.
The pastor took the major's arm and, while they walked up and down before the house, told how he had been "sold" by Capitola, ending by saying:
"You will have to take her firmly in hand."
"I'll do it," said Old Hurricane. "I'll do it."
The pastor then called for his horse and, resisting all his host's entreaties to stay to tea, took his departure.
Major Warfield re-entered the house, resolving to say nothing to Capitola for the present, but to seize the very first opportunity of punishing her for her flippancy.
The village fair had commenced on Monday. It had been arranged that all Major Warfield's family should go, though not all upon the same day. It was proposed that on Thursday, when the festival should be at its height, Major Warfield, Capitola and the house servants should go. And on Saturday Mrs. Condiment, Mr. Ezy and the farm servants should have a holiday for the same purpose.
Therefore, upon Thursday morning all the household be-stirred themselves at an unusually early hour, and appeared before breakfast in their best Sunday's suit.
Capitola came down to breakfast in a rich blue silk carriage dress, looking so fresh, blooming and joyous that it went to the old man's heart to disappoint her; yet Old Hurricane resolved, as the pastor had told him, to "be firm," and, once for all, by inflicting punishment, to bring her to a sense of her errors.
"There, you need not trouble yourself to get ready, Capitola; you shall not go to the fair with us," he said, as Cap took her seat.
"Sir!" exclaimed the girl, in surprise.
"Oh, yes; you may stare; but I'm in earnest. You have behaved very badly; you have deeply offended our pastor; you have no reverence, no docility, no propriety, and I mean to bring you to a sense of your position by depriving you of some of your indulgences; and, in a word, to begin I say you shall not go to the fair to-day."
"You mean, sir, that I shall not go with you, although you promised that I should," said Cap, coolly.
"I mean you shall not go at all, demmy!"
"I'd like to know who'll prevent me," said Cap.
"I will, Miss Vixen! Demmy, I'll not be set at naught by a beggar! Mrs. Condiment, leave the room, mum, and don't be sitting there listening to every word I have to say to my ward. Wool, be off with yourself, sir; what do you stand there gaping and staring for? Be off, or——" the old man looked around for a missile, but before he found one the room was evacuated except by himself and Capitola.
"Now, minion," he began, as soon as he found himself alone with the little rebel, "I did not choose to mortify you before the servants, but, once for all, I will have you to understand that I intend to be obeyed." And Old Hurricane "gathered his brows like a gathering storm."
"Sir, if you were really my uncle, or my father, or my legal guardian, I should have no choice but obey you; but the same fate that made me desolate made me free—a freedom that I would not exchange for any gilded slavery," said Cap, gaily.
"Pish! tush! pshaw! I say I will have no more of this nonsense. I say I will be obeyed," cried Old Hurricane, striking his cane down upon the floor, "and in proof of it I order you immediately to go and take off that gala dress and settle yourself down to your studies for the day."
"Uncle, I will obey you as far as taking off this dress goes, for, since you won't give me a seat in your carriage, I shall have to put on my habit and ride Gyp," said Cap, good humoredly.
"What! Do you dare to hint that you have the slightest idea of going to the fair against my will?"
"Yes, sir," said Cap, gaily. "Sorry it's against your will, but can't help it; not used to being ordered about and don't know how to submit, and so I'm going."
"Ungrateful girl; actually meditating disobedience on the horse I gave her!"
"Easy now, uncle—fair and easy. I did not sell my free will for Gyp! I wouldn't for a thousand Gyps! He was a free gift," said Capitola, beginning an impatient little dance about the floor.
"Come here to me; come—here—to—me!" exclaimed the old man peremptorily, rapping his cane down upon the floor with every syllable.
Capitola danced up to him and stood half smiling and fingering and arranging the lace of her under sleeves.
"Listen to me, you witch! Do you intend to obey me or not?"
"Not," said Cap, good-humoredly adjusting her cameo bracelet and holding up her arm to see its effect.
"You will not! Then, demmy, miss, I shall know how to make you!" thundered Old Hurricane, bringing the point of his stick down with a sharp rap.
"Eh!" cried Capitola, looking up in astonishment.
"Yes, miss; that's what I said—make you!"
"I should like to know how," said Cap, returning to her cool good humor.
"You would, would you? Demmy, I'll tell you! I have broken haughtier spirits than yours in my life. Would you know how?"
"Yes," said Cap, indifferently, still busied with her bracelets.
"Stoop and I will whisper the mystery."
Capitola bent her graceful head to hear.
"With the rod!" hissed Old Hurricane, maliciously.
Capitola sprang up as if she had been shot, wave after wave of blood tiding up in burning blushes over neck, face and forehead; then, turning abruptly, she walked off to the window.
Old Hurricane, terrified at the effect of his rude, rash words, stood excommunicating himself for having been provoked to use them; nor was the next aspect of Capitola one calculated to reassure his perturbed feelings.
She turned around. Her face was as white as marble, excepting her glittering eyes; they, half sheathed under their long lashes, flashed like stilettoes. Raising her hand and keeping her eyes fixed upon him, with a slow and gliding motion, and the deep and measured voice that scarcely seemed to belong to a denizen of earth, she approached and stood before him and spoke these words:
"Uncle, in all the sorrows, shames and sufferings of my destitute childhood, no one ever dishonored my person with a blow; and if ever you should have the misfortune to forget your manhood so far as to strike me—" She paused, drew her breath hard between her set teeth, grew a shade whiter, while her dark eyes dilated until a white ring flamed around the iris.
"Oh, you perilous witch! what then!" cried Old Hurricane, in dismay.
"Why, then," said Capitola, speaking in a low, deep and measured tone, and keeping her gaze upon his astonished face, "the—first—time—I— should—find—you—asleep—I—would—take—a—razor—and——"
"Cut my throat! I feel you would, you terrible termagant!" shuddered Old Hurricane.
"Shave your beard off smick, smack, smoove!" said Cap, bounding off and laughing merrily as she ran out of the room.
In an instant she came bounding back, saying, "Uncle, I will meet you at the fair; au revoir, au revoir!" and, kissing her hand, she dashed away and ran off to her room.
"She'll kill me; I know she will. If she don't do it one way she will in another. Whew! I'm perspiring at every pore. Wool! Wool, you scoundrel!" exclaimed the old man, jerking the bell-rope as if he would have broken the wires.
"Yes, sir; here I am, marse," exclaimed that worthy, hastening in in a state of perturbation, for he dreaded another storm.
"Wool, go down to the stables and tell every man there that if either of them allows a horse to be brought out for the use of Miss Black to-day. I'll flay them alive and break every bone in their skins. Away with you."
"Yes, sir," cried the shocked and terrified Wool, hurrying off to convey his panic to the stables.
Old Hurricane's carriage being ready, he entered it and drove off for the fair.
Next the house servants, with the exception of Pitapat, who was commanded to remain behind and wait upon her mistress, went off in a wagon.
When they were all gone, Capitola dressed herself in her riding-habit and sent Pitapat down to the stables to order one of the grooms to saddle Gyp and bring him up for her.
Now, when the little maid delivered this message, the unfortunate grooms were filled with dismay—they feared their tyrannical little mistress almost as much as their despotic old master, who, in the next change of his capricious temper, might punch all their heads for crossing the will of his favorite, even though in doing so they had followed his directions. An immediate private consultation was the consequence, and the result was that the head groom came to Pitapat, told her that he was sorry, but that Miss Black's pony had fallen lame.
The little maid went back with the answer.
When she was gone the head groom, calling to his fellows, said:
"That young gal ain't a-gwine to be fooled either by ole marse or we. She'll be down here herself nex' minute and have the horse walked out. Now we must make him lame a little. Light a match here, Jem, and I'll burn his foot."
This was immediately done. And, sure enough, while poor Gyp was still smarting with his burn, Capitola came, holding up her riding train and hurrying to the scene, and asking indignantly:
"Who dares to say that my horse is lame? Bring him out here this instant, that I may see him!"
The groom immediately took poor Gyp and led him limping to the presence of his mistress.
At the sight Capitola was almost ready to cry with grief and indignation.
"He was not lame last evening. It must have been your carelessness, you good-for-nothing loungers; and if he is not well enough to take me to the fair to-morrow, at least, I'll have the whole set of you lamed for life!" she exclaimed, angrily, as she turned off and went up to the house—not caring so much, after all, for her own personal disappointment as for Old Hurricane's triumph.
Cap's ill humor did not last long. She soon exchanged her riding-habit for a morning wrapper, and took her needlework and sat down to sew by the side of Mrs. Condiment in the housekeeper's room.
The day passed as usual, only that just after sunset Mrs. Condiment, as a matter of precaution, went all over the house securing windows and doors before nightfall. Then, after an early tea, Mrs. Condiment, Capitola and the little maid Pitapat gathered around the bright little wood fire that the chilly spring evening made necessary in the housekeeper's room. Mrs. Condiment was knitting, Capitola stitching a bosom for the major's shirts and Pitapat winding yarn from a reel.
The conversation of the three females left alone in the old house naturally turned upon subjects of fear—ghosts, witches and robbers.
Mrs. Condiment had a formidable collection of accredited stories of apparitions, warnings, dreams, omens, etc., all true as gospel. There was a haunted house, she said, in their own neighborhood—The Hidden House. It was well authenticated that ever since the mysterious murder of Eugene Le Noir unaccountable sights and sounds had been seen and heard in and about the dwelling. A traveler, a brother officer of Colonel Le Noir, had slept there once, and, "in the dead waste and middle of the night," had had his curtains drawn by a lady, pale and passing fair, dressed in white, with flowing hair, who, as soon as he attempted to speak to her, fled. And it was well known that there was no lady about the premises.
Another time old Mr. Ezy himself, when out after coons, and coming through the woods near the house, had been attracted by seeing a window near the roof lighted up by a strange blue flame; drawing near, he saw within the lighted room a female clothed in white passing and repassing the window.
Another time, when old Major Warfield was out with his dogs, the chase led him past the haunted house, and as he swept by he caught a glimpse of a pale, wan, sorrowful female face pressed against the window pane of an upper room, which vanished in an instant.
"But might not that have been some young woman staying at the house?" asked Capitola.
"No, my child; it is well ascertained that, since the murder of Eugene Le Noir and the disappearance of his lovely young widow, no white female has crossed the threshold of that fatal house," said Mrs. Condiment.
"'Disappearance,' did you say? Can a lady of condition disappear from a neighborhood and no inquiry be made for her?"
"No, my dear; there was inquiry, and it was answered plausibly—that Madame Eugene was insane and sent off to a lunatic asylum: but there are those who believe that the lovely lady was privately made away with," whispered Mrs. Condiment.
"How dreadful! I did not think such things happened in a quiet country neighborhood. Something like that occurred, indeed, in New York, within my own recollection, however," said Capitola, who straightway commenced and related the story of Mary Rogers and all other stories of terror that memory supplied her with.
As for poor little Pitapat, she did not presume to enter into the conversation; but, with her ball of yarn suspended in her hand, her eyes started until they threatened to burst from their sockets, and her chin dropped until her mouth gaped wide open, she sat and swallowed every word, listening with a thousand audience power.
By the time they had frightened themselves pretty thoroughly the clock struck eleven and they thought it was time to retire.
"Will you be afraid, Mrs. Condiment?" asked Capitola.
"Well, my dear, if I am I must try to trust in the Lord to overcome it, since it is no use to be afraid. I have fastened up the house well, and I have brought in Growler, the bull-dog, to sleep on the mat outside of my bedroom door, so I shall say my prayers and try to go to sleep. I dare say there is no danger, only it seems lonesome like for us three women to be left in this big house by ourselves."
"Yes," said Capitola; "but, as you say, there is no danger; and as for me, if it will give you any comfort or courage to hear me say it, I am not the least afraid, although I sleep in such a remote room and have no one but Patty, who, having no more heart that a hare, is not near such a powerful protector as Growler." And, bidding her little maid take up the night lamp, Capitola wished Mrs. Condiment good-night and left the housekeeper's room.