"Oh, Heaven help me! I know not what to do! I wish I were dead, sooner than be branded thus as an ingrate!"
Lizzie's sobs alone broke the stillness of the room. At last, unable to endure them longer, she rushed out and sought refuge in her own chamber. As she entered she saw Mrs. Gower seated by the window—a look of trouble and sadness on her usually happy, good-natured face.
"Oh! aunty, what shall I do? Oh! aunty, I am going crazy, I think!" cried Gipsy, distressedly, half maddened by the sight of Lizzie's tears.
"My dear, it is very plain what you must do. You must marry Dr. Wiseman," said Mrs. Gower, gravely.
"Oh! aunty, have you turned against me, too? Then I have no friend in the wide world! Oh! I wish—I wish I had never been born!"
"My love, don't talk in that way; it is not only very foolish, but very sinful. Dr. Wiseman is certainly not the man I would wish to see you married to; but, you perceive, there is no alternative. Gipsy, I am getting old, so is the squire; Mrs. Oranmore is ill, and I do not think she will live long. Will you, therefore, allow the old man and woman—who love you above all human beings—and a poor, weak invalid, to be turned upon the charity of the cold world to die? Gipsy, you know if we could save you from misery, we would coin our very hearts' blood to do it."
"And, oh, aunt! could there be greater misery for me than that to which you are urging me?"
"You talk like the thoughtless girl you are, Gipsy. How often, for wealth or social position merely, or to raise their friends from want, do young girls marry old men! Yet, you refuse to save us from worse than want, from disgrace and death—yes, death! I know what I am saying, Gipsy—you obstinately refuse. Gipsy, my child, for my sake do not become such a monster of ingratitude, but consent."
"Oh, aunty! leave me. I feel as if I were going mad! Every one in the world seems to have turned against me—even you! Oh, aunty, dear, good aunty! don't talk to me any more; my very brain seems on fire."
"Yes; your cheeks are burning, and your eyes are like fire—you are ill and feverish, my poor little fairy. Lie down, and let me bathe your head."