Sharing Her Crime Part 27

"You'll be back to-morrow in time for the rehearsal" inquired Mr.

Barnes, in no very pleased tone of voice.

"Oh, yes, to be sure," said Gipsy, as she ran off to get her hat and cloak.

"_We'll see about that!_" said the squire, inwardly, with a knowing nod.

Gipsy soon made her appearance. A cab was in waiting, and the whole party were soon on their way to the hotel.

"And now, tell us all your adventures since the night you eloped from Sunset Hall," said Louis, as they drove along.

"By and by. Tell me first all that has happened at St. Mark's since I left--all about Celeste, and the rest of my friends."

So Louis related all that had transpired since her departure--softening, as much as he could, the outrageous conduct of Minnette.

"Poor Celeste!" exclaimed Gipsy, with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes.

"Oh, don't I wish I'd only been there to take her part! _Wouldn't_ I have given it to Minnette--the ugly old thing!--beg pardon, Archie, for calling your cousin names."

"Oh, you're welcome to call her what you please, for all I care,"

replied Archie, in a nonchalant tone. "I'm not dying about her."

"There's no love lost, I think," said Louis, laughing.

By this time they had reached the hotel. Lizzie took Gipsy to her room to brush her hair and arrange her dress, and then led her to the parlor, where the trio were waiting them.

"And now for your story!" exclaimed Archie, condescendingly pushing a stool toward Gipsy with his foot.

"Well, it's not much to tell," said Gipsy. "After leaving _you_, Guardy, that night, in an excessively amiable frame of mind, I went up to my room and sat down to deliberate whether I'd set fire to the house and burn you all in your beds, or take a razor and cut _your_ windpipe, by way of letting in a little hint to be more polite to me in future."

"Good Lord! I just thought so!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the horrified squire.

"Finally, Guardy, I came to the conclusion that I would do neither. Both were unpleasant jobs--at least they would have been unpleasant to you, whatever they might have been to me, and would have taken too much time.

So I concluded to let you burden the earth a little longer, and quote Solomon for the edification of the world generally, and in the meantime to make myself as scarce as possible; for I'd no idea of staying to be knocked about like an old dishcloth. So I got up, took my last supply of pocket-money, stole down to the stables, mounted Mignonne, and dashed off like the wind. Poor Mignonne! I rather think I astonished him that night, and we were both pretty well blown by the time we reached Brande's Tavern.

"There I took breakfast, left Mignonne--much against my will--jumped into the mail-coach, and started for the city. Arrived there, I was for awhile rather at a loss in what direction to turn my talents. My predominant idea, however, was to don pantaloons and go to sea. Being determined to see the lions, while I staid, I went one night to the play, saw a little girl dancing, and--Eureka! I had discovered what I was born for at last! '_Couldn't_ I beat that?' says I to myself. And so, when I went home, I just got up before the looking-gla.s.s, stood on one toe, and stuck the other leg straight out, as she had done, cut a few pigeon-wings, turned a somerset or two, and came to the conclusion that if I didn't become a _danseuse_ forthwith, it would be the greatest loss this world ever sustained--the fall of Jerusalem not excepted. To a young lady of my genius it was no very difficult thing to accomplish. I went to see Old Barnes, who politely declined my services. But I wasn't going 'to give it up so, Mr. Brown,' and, like the widow in the Scripture, I gave him no peace, night or day, until he accepted my services. Well, after that all was plain sailing enough. Maybe I didn't astonish the world by the rapidity with which my continuations went up and down. It was while there I wrote that letter of consolation to Aunty Gower, by way of setting your minds at ease. Then we went to Washington, then to New York, and everywhere I 'won golden opinions from all sorts of people,' as Shakespeare, or Solomon, or some of them old fellows says. I always kept a bright lookout for you all, for I had a sort of presentiment I'd stumble against you some day. So I wasn't much surprised, but a good pleased, when I saw Guardy's dear old head protruding, like a huge overboiled beet, from one of the boxes to-night.

And so--_Finis_!"

"Gipsy," exclaimed Archie, "you're a regular specimen of Young America!

You deserve a leather medal, or a service of tin plate--you do, by Jove!"

"'Pon honor, now?"

"Oh, Gipsy, my love, I'm very sorry to think you could have degraded yourself in such a way!" said Lizzie, with a shockingly shocked expression of countenance.

"Degraded, Aunt Lizzie!" exclaimed Gipsy, indignantly. "I'd like to know whether it's more degrading to earn one's living, free and merry, as a respectable, 'sponsible, danceable dancer, as Totty would say, or to stay depending on any one, to be called a beggar, and kicked about like an old shoe, if you didn't do everything a snappish old crab of an old gentleman took into his absurd old head. I never was made to obey any one--and what's more, I won't neither. There, now!"

"Take care, Gipsy; don't make any rash promises," said Archie. "You've got to promise to 'love, honor, and obey' _me_, one of these days."

"Never-r-r! Obey _you_, indeed! Don't you wish I may do it?"

"Well, but, my love," said Lizzie, returning to the charge, "though it is too late to repair what you have done, you must be a dancing-girl no longer. You must return home with us to Sunset Hall."

"Return to Sunset Hall! Likely I'll go there to be abused again! Not I, indeed, Aunt Lizzie; much obliged to you, at the same time, for the offer."

"And I vow, Miss Flyaway, you _shall_ go with us--there!"

"And I vow, Guardy, I _sha'n't_ go with you--there!"

"I'll go to law, and _compel_ you to come. I'm your rightful guardian!"

said the squire, in rising wrath.

"Rightful fiddlesticks! I'm no ward of yours; I'm Aunty Gower's niece; and the law's got nothing to do with me," replied Gipsy, with an audacious snap of her fingers; for neither Gipsy nor the boys knew how she was found on the beach.

"And is that all the thanks you give me for offering to plague myself with you, you ungrateful little varmint?"

"I'm _not_ ungrateful, Squire Erliston!" flashed Gipsy--a streak of fiery red darting across her dark face. "I'm _not_ ungrateful; but I _won't_ be a slave to come at your beck; I _won't_ be called a beggar--a pauper; I _won't_ be told the workhouse is my rightful home; I _won't_ be struck like a cur, and then kiss the hand that strikes me. No! I'm not ungrateful; but, though I'm only a little girl, I _won't_ be insulted and abused for nothing. I can earn my own living, free and happy, without whining for any one's favor, thank Heaven!"

Her little form seemed to tower upward with the consciousness of inward power, her eyes filled, blazed, and dilated, and her dark cheek crimsoned with proud defiance.

The squire forgot his anger as he gazed in admiration on the high-spirited little creature standing before him, as haughty as a little empress. Stretching out his arms, he caught her, and seated her on his knee--stroking her short, dancing curls, as he said, in the playful tone one might use to a spoiled baby:

"And can't my little monkey make allowance for an old man's words? You know you were very naughty and mischievous that day, and I had cause to be angry with you; and if I said harsh things, it was all for your good, you know."

"All for my good!--such stuff! I wish you'd put me down. I'm a young lady, I'd have you to know; and I ain't going to be used like a baby, dandled up and down without any regard for my dignity!" said Gipsy, with so indignant an expression of countenance, that Archie--who, as I before mentioned, was blessed with a keen sense of the ludicrous--fell back, roaring with laughter.

"Now, Gipsy, my love, do be reasonable and return home with us," said Lizzie, impatiently.

"I won't, then--there!" said Gipsy, rather sullenly.

But the tears rushed into Lizzie's eyes--for she really was very fond of the eccentric elf--and in a moment Gipsy was off the squire's knee, and her arms round Lizzie's neck.

"Why, aunty, did I make you cry? Oh, I'm so sorry! Please don't cry, dear, _dear_ aunty."

"Oh, Gipsy, it's so selfish of you not to return with us, when we are so lonesome at home without you," said Lizzie, fairly sobbing.

"Yes; and poor Mrs. Gower will break her heart when she hears about it--I know she will," said Louis, in a lachrymose tone.

"And I'll break mine--I know I will!" added Archie, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes, and with some difficulty squeezing out a tear.

"And I'll blow my stupid old brains out; and _after that_, I'll break my heart, too," chimed in the squire, in a very melancholy tone of voice.

"Well! la me! you'll have rather a smashing time of it if you all break your hearts. What'll you do with the pieces, Guardy?--sell them for marbles?" said Gipsy, laughing.

"There! I knew you'd relent; I said it. Oh, Gipsy, my darling, I knew you wouldn't desert your 'Guardy' in his old age. I knew you wouldn't let him go down to his grave like a miserable, consumptive old tabby-cat, with no wicked little 'imp' to keep him from stagnating. Oh, Gipsy, my dear, may Heaven bless you!"

"Bother! I haven't said I'd go. Don't jump at conclusions. Before I'd be with you a week you'd be blowing me up sky-high."

"But, Gipsy, you know I can't live without blowing somebody up. You ought to make allowance for an old man's temper. It runs in our family to blow up. I had an uncle, or something, that was 'blown up' at the battle of Bunker Hill. Then I always feel after it as amiable as a cat when eating her kittens. 'After a storm there cometh a calm,' as Solomon says."