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.
"
ipsy, 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."