“You may kill me,” said the child, “and take my body away, if you like. I will not go while I am alive.”
She turned her eyes from one to the other, as if watching for the slightest motion to approach her.
Mrs. Morton, in great distress, spoke next. “My darling, it grieves me to the heart to take you from your dear, kind Daddy. But think, my Star; you are a child now, but you will soon be a woman. You cannot grow up to womanhood in a place like this. You must be with your own people, and have companions of your own age. My children will be like your own sisters and brothers. My dear, if you could only know how they will love you, how we shall all cherish and care for you!”
“When I am dead?” asked Star. “It will make no difference to me, your love, for I shall be dead. I will not go alive.”
“Oh, Captain January!” cried Mrs. Morton, turning to the old man with clasped hands. “Speak to her! she will listen to you. Tell her—tell her what you said to me. Tell her that it is right for her to go; that you wish her to go!”
The old man's breathing was heavy and laboured, and for a moment it seemed as if he strove in vain for utterance: but when he spoke, his voice was still soothing and cheerful, though his whole great frame was trembling like a withered leaf. “Star Bright,” he said (and between almost every word he paused to draw the short, heavy breath), “I always told ye, ye 'member, that ye was the child of gentlefolks. So bein', 'tis but right that you should have gentle raisin' by them as is yer own flesh and blood. You've done your duty, and more than your duty, by me. Now 'tis time ye did your duty by them as the Lord has sent to ye. You'll have—my—my respeckful love and duty wherever you go, my dear, and you growin' up to be a beautiful lady, as has been a little wild lass. And you'll not forget the old Cap'n, well I know, as will be very comf'table here—”
But here the child broke out with a wild, loud cry, which made all the others start to their feet. “Do you want me to go?” she cried. “Look at me, Daddy Captain! you shall look at me!” She snatched the cap from his hands and flung it into the fire, then faced him with blazing eyes and quivering lip. “Do you want me to go? Are you tired of me?”
Heavier and heavier grew that weight on Captain January's chest: shorter and harder came his breath. His eyes met the child's for a moment, then wavered and fell. “Why—honey—” he said, slowly, “I—I'm an old man now—a very old man. And—and—an old man likes quiet, ye see: and—I'd be quieter by myself, like; and—and so, honey—I—I'd like ye to go.”
“You lie!” cried the child; and her voice rang like a silver trumpet in the startled ears of the listeners. “You lie to me, and you lie to God: and you know you lie!”
The next moment she had sprung on to the low window-sill, then turned for an instant, with her little hands clenched in menace, and her great eyes flashing fire that fell like a burning touch on every heart. Her fantastic dress gleamed like a fiery cloud against the gray outside: her hair fell like a glory about her vivid, shining face. A moment she stood there, a vision, a flying star, trailing angry light, never to be forgotten by those who saw; then, like a flash, she vanished.