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 http://www.archive.org/details/ourlittlegipsyno01stei
 
 QUE LITTLE GIPSY.
 
 OUR LITTLE GIPSY 
 
 a flour 
 
 BY 
 
 EMMA C. C. STEIN MAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF (< THR OLD HOUSE AT M.DIHG.' : 
 
 TX THREE VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO. 
 
 31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET. STRAND 
 1881. 
 
 [All Rights reserved.]
 
 8£3 
 
 OUR LITTLE GIPSY. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 It was a morning in the last week of August ; we 
 
 dare not say how many years ago. A steamer lay at 
 
 Ostend waiting for its passengers. Already a carriage 
 
 — an English carriage — had been lowered on board ; a 
 
 courier lounged beside it. The steamer, if all went 
 
 well, would be in Dover Harbour by evening or before. 
 
 It was not an inviting morning ; the sea was rough, 
 
 the wind wailed. Those who were at liberty to choose 
 
 the day — the timid, the nervous, the discreet — would 
 
 ^ defer the pleasure of crossing. Thus there were not so 
 
 ^ many passengers as is usual at this travelling season of 
 
 | the year. The last passenger who came on board was 
 
 | the owner of the carriage ; he came attended by a 
 
 £ dainty-looking Erench valet, this very supercilious 
 
 t looking gentleman following his master with cloak, 
 
 rug, and dressing-case. 
 
 Half-past ten, the hour, or rather the time, an- 
 ' nounced for leaving Ostend, had arrived. The bell 
 j giving such notice was duly rung, and the steamer 
 - presently was out at sea. Eor a time matters went 
 5 on much as usual. Every now and then you missed a 
 
 £ VOL. I. A
 
 2 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 passenger from amid the little throng on deck. He or 
 she had silently stolen away, had descended to the 
 gentlemen's or to the ladies' cabin below, ashamed of 
 exhibiting en plcin jour, en plein midi, a state of feel- 
 ing, a state of health, sensations so unbecoming. At 
 length but one solitary passenger of the better class 
 was left on deck, and he the man we have already 
 indicated as the owner of the English carriage. 
 
 He sat gazing with perfect sang-froid on the giant 
 w r aves, or paced to and fro in apathetic sadness. He 
 was a man perhaps nearly fifty, rather gaunt or attenu- 
 ated, very pale, or perhaps we should say very 
 sallow. His eyes, if ever they had had any, had lost 
 their spirit and their lustre ; yet were they fine eyes, 
 still long-shaped, deep-coloured ; his brows were dark, 
 his face, if not handsome, was interesting. You saw 
 indications in it of feeling, of refinement, of suffering. 
 He evidently was not in robust health, or fancied him- 
 self an invalid. 
 
 He looked as supremely indifferent to every trifling 
 occurrence passing around him as it was possible for 
 man to look, and you saw that this was not an 
 affected indifference ; he had an air of abstraction, 
 and his manner was most unobtrusive. His valet and 
 his courier gave themselves much greater airs than he. 
 By their consequential manner they endeavoured to 
 make up for the lack of pretension in Sir Charles. 
 Until the valet had begun to feel a little poorly, his 
 every movement had seemed to say, " Do you compre- 
 hend what a great man is my master ? " Poor Sir Charles ! 
 He was a great man if wealth, if landed property, if
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 3 
 
 the title of baronet could make him so. Prosperity 
 had, as it were, been thrust upon him ; two fortunes 
 had he fallen into. The second estate only a few years 
 before had come to him, bringing with it the title of 
 baronet. " Why did not my poor cousin live to enjoy 
 what to me is almost worthless ? " mused Charles 
 Daubigny, when the mournful, or, as some would have 
 deemed it, the joyful, intelligence was first reported to 
 him. " Why," continued he, " why in Heaven's name 
 must the fool throw away his life?" 
 
 But Sir Alfred must needs throw away his life. He 
 must needs, despite of two several warnings, ride his 
 last steeplechase. A broken rib, a fractured arm had 
 not sufficed to deter. He was determined to make 
 Charles Daubigny a baronet ; and here is Sir Charles, 
 his reluctant successor, pacing the deck of the Belgian 
 steamer this stormy August day, feeling how worthless 
 is fortune when the soul is dressed in sorrow. 
 
 Charles Daubigny was a man governed by imagina- 
 Memory, intense feeling, counteracted, annihi- 
 lated all the blessings fortune had bestowed. Or shall 
 we admit, as he ofttimes mused, that fortune had 
 mocked him, had sported with his woe ? 
 
 Once — once how precious had been the gifts the 
 fitful goddess since had lavished upon him. Yes, 
 at the time he had so coveted, and had been denied, 
 the hand of Helene Yane ; when her fair form had 
 risen before him in the dreams of night, when it had 
 been his wakiug joy. 
 
 But he was poor then, a briefless barrister, and 
 none could foresee the freaks fortune would play.
 
 4 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 And so Helene jested about his offer, asked how 
 they were to live ; and after flirting with him un- 
 mercifully, had married a rich old banker, from whom 
 — alas to tell ! — she had fled at the invitation of a 
 lover handsomer than herself, haughtier than her- 
 self ; — at the invitation of the man she had always 
 secretly preferred, but of whose admiration she had 
 been unconscious till it was sin to confess how 
 precious it was to her. Ah, this hapless pair, how 
 had they fallen now ! She to her mother earth like a 
 leaf that sinks on the dewy ground to undergo a 
 premature decay ; he, like a leaf fallen too, but 
 denied her rest ; he like the leaf drifting onwards in 
 life's tempest still. The sinner, the seducer was a 
 second cousin of our man of imagination ; but though 
 they were relations, Charles Daubigny knew not 
 where his hapless rival sojourned at this time. And 
 do we not all lose sight of our second cousins, and of 
 our nearer cousins too, especially when wasted means, 
 when deserved misfortunes lead them to withdraw 
 from the notice of too curious eyes? And they had 
 been separated by deeper feeling. Yes, for fourteen 
 years Charles Daubigny had kept aloof from the man 
 who had brought ruin and disgrace on his early love. 
 And now, this stormy summer day, Charles Daubigny 
 paces the deck, looks on the mighty waves as tljey 
 roll towards him, listens to the wail of the wind, and 
 still, still Helene Vane, though false and sinful in 
 her life, though mouldering in her foreign grave, still, 
 still she lives in his memory to mar all the bless- 
 ings Heaven has bestowed. To the melancholy
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 5 
 
 infatuation that overshadowed or that incessantly pur- 
 sued Sir Charles, must be attributed the satisfaction he 
 feels as the rising wind utters its ceaseless plaining, or 
 again and again breaks forth into louder tones of 
 sorrow. 
 
 Yes, in nature's plaintive or impassioned accents 
 there was consonance, harmony with his state of feeling. 
 And when, as presently it did, the thunder distant 
 rolled, the waves grew mightier still, the late lack- 
 lustre eyes that gazed were spiritless no more, the 
 excitement of the moment had restored something of 
 our poor friend's early youth. Charles Daubigny, hail- 
 ing, welcoming nature's distraction, might be deemed 
 almost a handsome man. He had been in his listless- 
 ness as the unlighted lamp. The spirit stirred, quick- 
 ened within, and the light shone forth now as shines a 
 light through a frosted glass. 
 
 But, as may be supposed, these tokens of a coming 
 storm, however congenial to his state of feeling, must 
 be an annoyance to every one else on board. 
 
 It was presently rumoured, too, that the vessel was 
 not considered in a fitting condition to encounter such 
 rough weather ; and her Flemish captain, craven or 
 wise, we presume not to say which, gave out that he 
 should forthwith run her into Dunkirk Harbour instead 
 of proceeding on his way to Dover. 
 
 My reader will be able to imagine the excitement 
 that prevailed : the joy, the relief of some timid ones ; 
 the rage, the impatience of others, bolder, or whose 
 time was perhaps almost precious as life itself. 
 
 Happily we shall say, for prudence surely is ever the 
 
 \ 
 
 %
 
 6 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 best guide, happily the cautious captain succeeded 
 in his endeavour ; Dunkirk was gained, and presently 
 the vessel lay in safety and at rest. 
 
 The next thing to be considered was what the passen- 
 gers should do for sustenance through the weary hours 
 to follow. The steamer was not provided with food, 
 nor tea, coffee, or bottled beer. There was absolutely 
 nothing on board fit for a lady or a gentleman, or a fas- 
 tidious valet or a high-priced courier to partake of. 
 Such an emergency had not been looked for. The 
 captain suggested that it would be quite easy and much 
 better for the passengers at once to land and seek 
 refreshments in Dunkirk. They need not return until 
 nine or ten o'clock at night. 
 
 Hereupon was a great deal of bustle and activity. 
 Even the stewardess was glad to avail herself of the 
 captain's permission. She had friends in Dunkirk; 
 slit would make a jaunt ashore. 
 
 Now come we to Sir Charles. He positively declined 
 scrambling into a boat and landing at Dunkirk. 
 
 He recollected that in his carriage was a box of 
 biscuits, a flask of brandy, and a bottle of soda water. 
 He could subsist on these. But for his dainty valet, 
 his dashing courier? He enjoined the twain to go 
 ashore, stretch their legs, get their supper or their dinner 
 (whichever they might choose to term it), and then 
 return to the steamer, bringing with them a further 
 supply of biscuits and a bottle of vin ordinaire for their 
 master's use in case of need. Thus careless of eating, 
 or thus without appetite, was our man of wealth. 
 
 One man and one poor boy were left in charge of 
 
 *
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 7 
 
 the steamer ; the rest of the crew had gone off with the 
 stewardess and the passengers to Dunkirk. Charles 
 Daubigny believed himself to be the only person on 
 board save these two. After so much confusion, how 
 welcome to him was the silence, the absence of the 
 many voices. 
 
 The man and the boy scarcely spoke — they were 
 very quiet. Poor creatures, they were glad of a little 
 rest. 
 
 As the afternoon departed, as the cloudy evening, 
 dim with mist, approached, our man of imagination 
 slowly and sadly paced the deck. He listened to the 
 piteous sighing of the wind, to the subdued, because 
 now more distant, sound of the roaring, rushing waves. 
 These were sounds that tended rather to soothe than 
 otherwise. They sang a lullaby to his ever-aching 
 heart, and he was permitted to fall into a state of 
 dreamy tranquillity — into that state that was the near- 
 est approach to satisfaction he could now attain to, 
 for positive happiness, positive pleasure, he believed 
 it was impossible he could ever experience again. 
 
 After some considerable time had been thus whiled 
 away, his dreamy musing was suddenly interrupted. 
 Torrents of rain began to fall. In some haste Sir 
 Charles sought the excellent saloon below. He had 
 gone down the stairs ; he was in the saloon when he 
 actually started back with surprise. Leaning her 
 head on her hands, her elbows resting on the saloon 
 table, sat a young girl dressed in white. She seemed 
 startled as much as himself by the sudden descent he 
 had made. Before quitting the vessel, the stewardess,
 
 8 -Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 intending to return late, had placed a light in the glass 
 lantern fixed over the table, so that no darkness pre- 
 vailed at this particular spot. The girl, indeed, sat 
 just beneath the light, and when she raised her head at 
 the sound of the intruder's footsteps, its rays fell full 
 upon her childlike countenance. Sir Charles saw that 
 tears were glistening on her cheeks ; he also saw that, 
 despite these tears, she was exceedingly lovely. 
 
 " I beg pardon," cries the intruder ; " I had no idea 
 that any one was left on board." Then seeing the 
 evidences of her distress, he said gently and tenderly, 
 " Have you been left here inadvertently ? Did you 
 not wish to stay ? " 
 
 " I had no one to take me ashore," answered the girl, 
 her young face suffused with blushes. " I am alone. 
 The stewardess promised to see to me till I was met, 
 but she is gone." 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ? Can I render you 
 any service ? " 
 
 " No, thank you," returned the girl with a little touch 
 of distance or shyness in her manner; then taking 
 courage, asked in tremulous yet earnest tones as though 
 it would be a relief to her to be assured, "You do 
 think the stewardess will return ? You think the ship 
 ivill go on." 
 
 "The stewardess will undoubtedly return. The 
 steamer will certainly proceed as soon as the weather 
 and the tide permit." While Sir Charles answered, he 
 gazed intently on the girl. There was something in 
 her face, in her voice, in her manner of speaking, in 
 her very attitude, that struck him almost as familiar.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 9 
 
 Her voice seemed like an echo of a voice he had heard 
 long, long ago — a sad, sweet echo. Did he dream 
 now ? Had he seen her in some vision of the night 
 before ? What was it? How was it? His curiosity, 
 nay, more than curiosity, his interest was excited. 
 There was a mystery ; he must solve the mystery. 
 He was determined to discover who the girl might be. 
 
 So with a little cunning or adroitness, the result of 
 more than a very young man's experience, he asked, 
 " Have you any luggage on board ? With no one to 
 see after you, in such confusion it may be lost ?" 
 
 " Yes, and it is down here somewhere, I believe," she 
 said. "Oh, that portmanteau is mine, I think" glancing 
 towards a portmanteau that stood near; then rising she 
 examined the label on it, " Yes, it is mine," she added, 
 walking back to her seat. . 
 
 As the girl turned away, Sir Charles took the oppor- 
 tunity of approaching the portmanteau. He stooped 
 down and read on the label, Mademoiselle Helene 
 Graham. 
 
 "Pardon my curiosity," he presently murmured, 
 " but I have read the name on your portmanteau. 
 Tell me," he continued, " you have no mother living ?" 
 
 " No," cried the girl, now gazing on her questioner. 
 
 " And your father, George Graham, he is alive ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Why, then, are you alone? Where is your father ?" 
 
 " He is in Bruges." 
 
 " And how can he be so reckless, so unfeeling, as to 
 suffer you, his daughter, to travel thus alone — to be 
 under the care, the protection of a stewardess ?"
 
 io Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " He could not help it," cried the girl, bursting into 
 an irrepressible passion of tears. 
 
 •• Why ?" asked Charles Daubigny, his so lately 
 spiritless eyes flashing with anger, with interest- 
 
 " I cannot tell you," replied she, still weeping. 
 
 " I believe, nay, I am certain, that your father is 
 my cousin," continued he, gazing on the lovely but 
 tear-stained face before him. " If there is any mis- 
 fortune, if he is in any trouble, you had better tell 
 me." 
 
 " You papa's cousin ? " cried the girl, starting up in 
 amazement. " How ? Who ?" 
 
 . " Have you ever heard of Charles Daubigny, now 
 Sir Charles?" 
 
 " Yes, and you do not like papa ; I have heard him 
 say so." 
 
 " No, no ; I have not liked him. But you seem 
 wretched. For your sake, Helene, I would set aside 
 all feeling." 
 
 " Would you help him ? Would you do him any 
 good ?" asked the girl, losing her timidity in the excess 
 of her love for her father. " Oh ! if you would, I 
 should be grateful to you for ever. It is his misery 
 makes mine ; it is the disgrace that has just fallen 
 upon him." Helene uttered these words with im- 
 passioned zeal, with all the grace untutored nature 
 gives. 
 
 " Tell me the whole truth ; let there be no prevari- 
 cation, no concealment," returned Sir Charles. 
 
 " Papa is in prison," broke from the girl's quivering 
 lips, and as they gave utterance to the dreadful words,
 
 02W Little Gipsy. 1 1 
 
 so intense was her shame, her suffering, that she sank 
 down like one completely overpowered, covering her 
 face with her hands. 
 
 Sir Charles gazed upon her in the greatest apprehen- 
 sion. "For what offence?" he asked, then gently added, 
 " Your father's misfortunes are perhaps beyond my 
 reach, are perhaps greater than I could have conceived 
 possible. What has he been about ?" 
 
 " He has been about nothing," cries Helene, " but 
 he has grown poorer and poorer, and could not pay his 
 hotel bill, and the people would not wait." 
 
 "Are you telling the truth, child?" asked Charles 
 Daubigny almost sternly, his whole being changed by 
 the interest he felt, his sad expressionless features now 
 expressive of deep contending emotions. " Has your 
 father been guilty of no offence ?" he repeated. 
 
 - Xone, none," cried the girl. 
 
 " Do you know at all what he owes in Bruges ; 
 whether only this hotel bill or other bills besides ?" 
 
 " Only this one. He waited day by day expecting 
 money from his lawyer, but it never came." 
 
 " Can you guess the sum your father owes at the 
 hotel ?" 
 
 " Oh, it is hundreds !" cried she, weeping anew ; 
 " more than three hundred pounds, and you will never 
 give him this," and the child was completely overcome 
 by the tempest of contending hope and fear that filled 
 her soul. 
 
 " Will you return with me to Bruges, Helene ? 
 Shall we go and see what can be done ?" asked Charles 
 Daubigny.
 
 12 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Oh ! will you take me back to him ? Oh ! will 
 you try to save him ?" cried the girl with clasped 
 hands. 
 
 " I will," murmured he, taking one of the little hands 
 tenderly in his own ; " I will," he murmured, " for her 
 sake, for thine." 
 
 "But where were you going?" presently inquired 
 our man of imagination. " Who was to meet you ?" 
 
 " I was to be met by mamma's old governess. She 
 lives at Dover. She is married to a doctor there. 
 Papa could think of no one else to send me to. I 
 could not remain at the hotel longer. And see," she 
 added, " this little case I have in my hand belonged to 
 poor mamma. It is her jewel-case. He bade me give 
 it immediately into the hands of Mrs. Sherwin." 
 
 Sir Charles almost groaned, so deep was his sigh. 
 He recognised the jewel-box. He had often seen 
 Helene's mother, the fairest of the fair, sparkling in 
 the diamonds that no doubt it contained. He was 
 indeed so much the victim of imagination, so wholly 
 infatuated by his early recollections, that for a moment 
 or two he remained absolutely silent. At length he 
 said, " And you prefer returning to your father ? 
 You do not desire to go to this Mrs. Sherwin ? You 
 love your father ? He is kind to you ? " 
 
 " He loves me better than he loves himself," broke 
 from Helene as she strove to restore herself to tran- 
 quillity. 
 
 " We must send a messenger to the doctor's wife," 
 slowly murmured Sir Charles. " I suppose she was 
 Miss Thompson, the governess I remember ?"
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 13 
 
 " She was Miss Thompson ; I remember papa said so." 
 
 "A very worthy person," continued Charles Daubigny, 
 then added after musing a moment, " Are you sure, 
 child, that you would not be better with this lady?" 
 
 "Why do you ask me again?" cried the girl, her 
 natural impetuosity showing itself ; " I would die to 
 save him." And she arose, and moved about in some 
 agitation. 
 
 " You need not be angry," cried Sir Charles, con- 
 templating the lovely child who brought so strangely 
 back to his mind what her dead mother had been; 
 " you need not be angry. Your father's past conduct, 
 his recklessness, as I feel satisfied he would himself 
 acknowledge, justifies me in having a doubt, a sus- 
 picion of what he may be." 
 
 " I have heard papa say that he has done wrong. 
 But now, indeed, he is quite good. He tells me he 
 never looked into the Bible once, but now he reads it." 
 
 " Your father reads the Bible ! George reads the 
 Bible ! God have mercy!" cries Charles Daubigny with 
 an almost mocking smile. 
 
 " Papa's heart is broken," exclaimed the girl in 
 earnest, in impassioned tones ; " he has told me so 
 a hundred times," and Helene's tears gushed forth 
 vehemently as before. 
 
 " There, don't break your own about him," retorted 
 her protector, almost jealous of the love George excited. 
 " I promise you I '11 see what can be done," and for 
 a while in thoughtful silence Charles Daubigny paced 
 the saloon. Presently he continued as if speaking his 
 thoughts aloud. " This is what we must do. We must
 
 14 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 leave the vessel as soon as the boats return ; we must 
 so to an hotel in Dunkirk ; we must take the earliest 
 train to-morrow. My man, my servant, I must send 
 to meet Mrs. Sherwin with a note from you, Helene. 
 My servants shall both go on to London ; I can do 
 without a servant. Better be without these paltry 
 witnesses. I know your father, Helene ; I know that 
 his pride, his fastidious feeling must indeed be 
 wounded." 
 
 " He is not so very proud," murmured Helene. 
 " Yes he is," cried Sir Charles. " It's in him. It's 
 helped on his ruin. Have you — I suppose you have 
 a hundred times — have you heard him allude to his 
 defeat in the peerage case ? He wasted thousands on 
 that folly. No more right to it than myself. Flat- 
 tered into the belief by some knave." 
 
 " But that wasn't wicked," pleaded Helene. " He 
 says now that he has a right to it, and if he believes 
 wrong, is mistaken, that is not wicked." 
 
 " That is not wicked," repeated Sir Charles, gazing on 
 the girl. " No, child, no ; I did not allude to that." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Helene, fearing that her father might 
 be abandoned to his fate, " Oh, Sir, he is not wicked." 
 
 "No, child, not always intentionally wicked, not 
 always. Too often he 's been but his own enemy ; but 
 he's suffered enough. I have done. Let us hope for 
 better things."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A vigilante or Belgian fly has driven into the court- 
 yard of the Hotel Fleur de Ble, and alight from it the 
 girl in white and Charles Daubigny. 
 
 Madame is, standing in the hall of entrance, for it 
 is one of the times when travellers are likely to arrive 
 by the train. On seeing the girl she starts, as though 
 her eyes rested on a spectre ; but she starts, if possible 
 still more, when Sir Charles accosts her. Sir Charles 
 was well known to Madame ; he had been twice at her 
 hotel before. Once he had stayed at the Fleur de Ble 
 when on his road to Switzerland. A second time he 
 came out of mere curiosity ; he had had a mind to 
 make a careful survey of the sad old city. He had 
 purchased some fine old pictures in Bruges, a 
 cabinet belonging to Madame herself, and various 
 pieces of old china, also her property. Charles Dau- 
 bigny was well known to Madame as a man of wealth 
 and importance. From his servants Madame had con- 
 trived to glean many particulars. "What's up now?" 
 was Madam e's soul's question, the query of her worldly 
 mind. 
 
 How could the apparently abandoned child she had
 
 1 6 Our Little Gipsy. \ 
 
 so lately despatched to Ostend be here, and with this 
 important personage % 
 
 " Yon are surprised," said Sir Charles Daubigny, 
 addressing the amazed hostess ; " you are surprised to 
 see Miss Graham, but I met the young lady in a little 
 scene of distress. Bad weather, Madame, the captain 
 put into Dunkirk." 
 
 " Ah ! there has been ; thees morning the news 
 come ; no ting ver bad, Sir Sharle, I hope." 
 
 " Nothing very bad," repeated Sir Charles, smiling. 
 " For Miss Helene and myself, perhaps a fortunate mis- 
 chance, since owing to the delay we have made out 
 our relationship. Madame, may I request you to see 
 my cousin to a comfortable sleeping apartment. I 
 shall require one also, and a saloon. We stay with 
 you, perhaps, probably some days. 
 
 Madame's small eyes were opened as wide as their 
 natural contraction permitted. 
 
 Helene shrank from. her. However just or pardon- 
 able had been the late proceedings of the host and 
 hostess of the Fleur de Ble, the girl could not forgive 
 what they had done. She shuddered, she thrilled 
 with horror whenever she recalled the dreadful blow 
 they had inflicted on her father. 
 
 Madame felt all the awkwardness of her own 
 position, and hastened to give the young lady in charge 
 of the superior femme de chambre, who, with smiles 
 and curtsies, conducted Helene to ISTo. 25. 
 
 Sir Charles and Madame are presently closely 
 closeted, he diligently inquiring into his kinsman's 
 affairs. Their conference ended thus : —
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 17 
 
 " I shall require a messenger, Madame, in an hour's 
 time. I must despatch a note to your maison de 
 dttention!' 
 
 He had previously said, " It was not well, Madame, 
 to make such short work of it as you did ; you 
 should have had more patience and greater faith in 
 my cousin's integrity. Whatever may have been his 
 failings, his honesty has never been questioned. Un- 
 luckily for himself, through life he has been but too 
 generous, too lavish, too trustful — scrupulously exact." 
 
 " If we had known Monsieur was of your alliance," 
 said Madame apologetically, " Mais — " 
 
 " Nothing you can say, Madame, can wipe away the 
 painful fact. Perhaps the less you say the better," 
 returned Charles Daubigny with an unusual severity 
 in his voice, with an unwonted frown upon his brow. 
 And Madame at length, apparently in some dismay 
 but in reality, very well satisfied with the prospect 
 of so speedy a settlement of her claim, curtsies and 
 retires. 
 
 Sir Charles is now alone. He has given himself one 
 short hour wherein to compose his letter. 
 
 Unfortunate man, until he commenced his self- 
 imposed task he had no idea of the difficulty he should 
 find in its performance. He was about to address one 
 whom for fourteen years he had shunned, whom he 
 hated for having attracted, allured, and detached the 
 hapless Helene from the path of duty. True, George 
 Graham had not wronged Charles Daubigny. Charles 
 Daubigny had never had possession of Helene's heart 
 or her person. But George Graham had brought degra- 
 
 vol. 1. b
 
 i8 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 dation and ruin on his cousin's ideal of perfection ; he 
 had polluted the image Charles Daubigny's imagination 
 had clothed with all that was lovely. Helene had gone 
 to her rest in shame, in obscurity, and a dark cloud 
 lowered above her, and but for George Graham this had 
 not been. True, the world had said that Helene was 
 the guiltier of the twain, for her lover broke no mar- 
 riage vow, while she had fled from an adoring old 
 husband, from a most worthy and respectable man. 
 
 Still, heedless of the world's opinion, Charles Dau- 
 bigny had never forgiven his haughty and his handsome 
 kinsman. His very success, his triumph had made him 
 odious. To himself, as a girl, Helene had been hard, 
 cold, and unfeeling, and here was one for whom she 
 could sacrifice even her honour, her reputation, her 
 right place in the world. 
 
 Charles Daubigny had just scrawled " Dear George" 
 on the blank sheet of paper before him, when, for the 
 thousandth time these memories rose up anew, to dis- 
 turb, to agitate. He started from his chair, he paced 
 the room, his heart beat with its old fierce anger. 
 
 But the girl's image, the vision, the scene he had 
 witnessed in the saloon, almost as instantly arose before 
 him to quell, to extinguish, or to mollify his animosity. 
 
 How sweetly fair, how wholly innocent was she ! 
 How every moment of her future life might be influ- 
 enced by, might be made happier by his efforts. His 
 heart melted into tenderness. God had presented this 
 opportunity ; he would not, he must not let it pass. He 
 would save, he would bless. After a while he returns to 
 his chair and resumes his pen. But now to his imagina-
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 19 
 
 tion arose a new difficulty. The ruined man lie was 
 about to address was by nature so haughty, so fastidious, 
 so sensitive, he might spurn the offer he was about 
 to make, he might resent as an insult his interference, 
 he might choose rather to remain in his foreign prison 
 than to accept assistance from himself. 
 
 It behoved him then to approach with caution, to 
 ask as a favour, to ask for the girl's sake that he might 
 be permitted to settle this pressing claim, and extricate 
 his kinsman from his present difficulty. 
 
 Oh, reader, I present thee the letter that follows not 
 as the letter of a man of genius. Charles Daubignv 
 had no pretension to genius, he was not even a very 
 clever man. His mind was but mediocre. But he had 
 a heart and a soul such as few men have, uncorrupted 
 by the world, incapable of being lifted up by wealth, 
 by positron ; practising simulation only out of amia- 
 bility, or when he thought good would result from 
 silence or ambiguity. 
 
 For the sake of that young fair girl he quells his 
 rage, he pardons his enemy. He will do that good with 
 his money which, imaginative as he is, hope tells him 
 he may do. 
 
 He will strive to make the beautiful and impassioned 
 child happier and better. What though sin hath 
 hedged her path with brambles and sharp thorns, 
 these weeds of the wilderness shall give place to weeds 
 of softer grace, or they shall be veiled, hidden by his 
 care. The honeysuckle shall give its golden glory, the 
 bindweed and the May shall give their snowy purity. 
 Ah ! his hand shall plant and tend, till Helene, in the
 
 20 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 dim, the far-off future, shall soft repose amid the 
 peaceful olive boughs, the myrtle shades. 
 
 Though cypress shadows fall upon his own sad path, 
 and make the very sunlight misty to himself, though 
 nightshade, hemlock, herbs of poison be inevitably her 
 ruined father's portion, why should this child, this 
 girl, this thing of innocence and beauty, find no rescue ? 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 " Dear George, — Perhaps the first sentence my pen 
 traces on this paper, traces in feeling too deep for ex- 
 pression, should be one of apology. 
 
 " I ask myself, will you resent my interference ? and 
 I am fain to confess (knowing your nature as I do) a 
 doubt, a fear oppresses me. 
 
 " Yet must I hope that you will strive to subdue and 
 restrain your natural impetuosity, and strive to believe 
 with me that that I am about to narrate — the singular 
 circumstance that has occurred, that which urges me 
 to seek a renewal of our long-broken intercourse — 
 has been the will of God, the work of an overruling 
 Providence. 
 
 " You had arranged with Madame for Helene 
 
 to cross in the mail packet on . I had in- 
 
 tended reaching Dover by the same vessel on the same 
 day, and duly went on board at the hour named. 
 
 " The morning w r as anything but inviting, the air was 
 misty, the sky heavy with shifting cloud. Not a ray 
 of sunshine broke the gloom, and passed athwart us at 
 little intervals gusts of wind, uttering as they passed a 
 feeble cry of pain. The sea, too, when we had made
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 2 1 
 
 some way from land, was found to be much rougher 
 than had been anticipated. 
 
 " Had matters continued thus we had doubtless had 
 an uneventful passage. But it was not so to be — it was 
 ordered otherwise. 
 
 " Gradually the heavy shifting clouds overhead grew 
 darker, the mist increased, and each succeeding gust of 
 wind blew fresher and fiercer, and was more prolonged ; 
 the former voice of gentle suffering exchanged now for, 
 or was drowned in, a wild and threatening shriek. 
 
 " The sea, too, had also changed its aspect. The waves 
 at this time rolled by us, or met us in their vastest pro- 
 portion, their most majestic tribulation. 
 
 " For myself, I must confess this rough weather had 
 its attraction. There could, I believed, be no cause for 
 apprehension. But my apathy, or my satisfaction, was 
 due to my ignorance. I was unconscious that we were 
 crossing in an old patched-up vessel unfitted to en- 
 counter even so slight a gale. The captain was better 
 up in such knowledge, and I was presently aroused 
 from my reverie by the old fellow touching me on the 
 arm, and telling me, in the best English he could com- 
 mand, that forthwith he should change his course and 
 make for the nearest haven, Dunkirk. ' He liked not 
 the weather in such a ship,' etc. etc., and in spite of a 
 violent opposition from one or two of the passengers, 
 he happily carried his intention into effect. Ere long 
 the vessel lay in safety and at rest. 
 
 " And now, as at the best many hours must elapse 
 ere we could proceed, and there was scarce anything 
 to eat or to drink on board, our Flemish captain sug-
 
 22 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 gested that the wisest course to pursue was for the 
 passengers at once to land and seek refreshment and 
 relaxation in Dunkirk. His suggestion met with ap- 
 proval, and followed, as it seemed to me, a general move. 
 I sent my servants with the rest of the people, but de- 
 clined myself making one of the numerous party bound 
 for the city, preferring the solitude, the quietness I 
 should find in the presently about-to-be-forsaken vessel. 
 
 " I had wandered up and down on deck musing and 
 reading for hours, but at length the rain, that suddenly 
 fell in torrents, compelled me to seek a place of shelter. 
 Hastily I descended the stairs, as hastily entered the 
 saloon, to find there in desertion, in distress, that child 
 of whom I have sometimes dreamed, whom I had how 
 often vainly wished to behold. As I stood gazing upon 
 her, as she answered the questions which, in my amaze- 
 ment, I framed, a strange, a painful feeling thrilled 
 through my soul. The voice alone would have betrayed. 
 It fell upon my senses as a sad, sweet echo of a music 
 I had listened to long, long ago. Yes, I felt that the 
 girl mysteriously recalled the past, and using a little 
 stratagem, I was enabled to discover by the label on 
 her luggage that imagination had not deceived me. 
 
 " Helene tells me that your love for her is great, is 
 never-failing. You will then for her sake pardon my 
 trespass. You will forgive me for having drawn from 
 her unwilling lips in that moment of confusion the 
 truth, the reason why she was travelling in the unpro- 
 tected condition in which I found her. 
 
 " When she discovered who I was, or rather when 
 she learned of the deep interest I felt, the desire I had
 
 Oiw Little Gipsy. 23 
 
 to render my utmost assistance, I cannot describe, as I 
 can never forget, her impassioned eagerness. She would 
 not be prevailed upon to pursue her journey, or rather 
 resume her passage to Dover. She would return with 
 me, and we are now together in this house. The child 
 is scarce able to restrain her impatient longing for your 
 return. George, though you would refuse me, though 
 in your soul's depths you despise, spurn my offer of 
 assistance, you cannot, you will not resist when the 
 little Helene pleads. In such a cruel emergency you 
 will suffer me to make an immediate settlement of this 
 pressing claim. 
 
 " I have already spoken severely to the hostess; I have 
 been careful to represent you to her as a gentleman of 
 the highest character, whose integrity, whose honour 
 none ever presumed to question. I have mentioned our 
 relationship; that your present difficulty must be but a 
 temporary affair. I find your absence from this house 
 has been but of a few days. I entreat you to return 
 hither as carelessly as you can, and treat the affair as a 
 mere bagatelle. Do not betray any uneasiness. With 
 your leave all may yet go well. Write by my mes- 
 senger. — And believe me, faithfully yours, 
 
 Charles T. Daubigny." 
 
 The letter finished, it was forthwith despatched to the 
 maison de detention. And now in the mind of him 
 who wrote it what perturbation ! It had been com- 
 posed, as we have shown, under the strongest excite- 
 ment in less than an hour. There had been no time for 
 reflection or amendment. It had gone straight from an
 
 24 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 overwrought imagination, from a heart full of generous 
 feeling. 
 
 And now, as Sir Charles paced his room, and recalled, 
 or tried to recall, the expressions he had used, the light 
 he had let in betraying his own sensitiveness, he pic- 
 tured his imprisoned kinsman jesting over his sentiment, 
 laughing his offer to scorn, his lip curling in disdain. 
 
 Then he who had but just written the letter started 
 aghast at his own rashness, or his pale cheek flushed as 
 he thought of his own humility. Why had he attacked 
 such an intractable person ? Why had he vainly abased 
 himself by pleading with him ? 
 
 Then sometimes hope would triumph. The girl had 
 said that her father's heart was broken, that she had 
 seen him look into a Bible, ay, even read the sacred 
 volume. And if that obdurate heart were broken, if 
 suffering had indeed so wrought upon it, then in the 
 very spirit in which the letter had been written it might 
 be read. 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 " Your communication has been a great surprise to 
 me. Its suddenness, its peculiar nature has so agitated, 
 so affected me, as to bring on beating of the heart to 
 excess, a thing I have only occasionally, I may say 
 rarely, suffered from before. The attack was accom- 
 panied by faintness. My thoughts were scattered ; 
 my hand refused its office. 
 
 " 1 should not mention this had it not occasioned a 
 delay. Your messenger has unavoidably been de- 
 tained waiting for my answer.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 25 
 
 " There has been no rebellion in my soul, scarce 
 any reluctancy to accept your generous offer. 
 
 " But let us cast away disguise. The interest you 
 take in my affairs springs from a preconceived tender- 
 ness you have cherished for the child. My love for 
 the child induces me to suppress or rather to overcome 
 my natural feeling, induces me to overlook the past. 
 Let her be as articles of peace between us. Let 
 Helene be as a bridge cast over an otherwise impass- 
 able chasm. 
 
 " And here I must also remark, that if ever I were, 
 I no longer am the reckless unmanageable devil vour 
 imagination represents me ; I see traces of such an 
 impression all through your letter. The proudest 
 animal, by dint of hard and constant work, by use 
 of bit and spur, in time becomes the sorriest hack. 
 I have had such tyranny ; disappointment and afflic- 
 tion have bestridden, anguish goaded. 
 
 " I have witnessed death — death, Charles — her death ! 
 It came not too soon. She has been spared the worst. 
 I must envy, but I may not desire the refuge she 
 timely gained, since a little life is so bound up in mine. 
 
 " And this brings me to another consideration, and 
 bids me, emboldens me to ask at your hands another 
 favour, a yet greater favour than that you are about 
 to confer. Will you, on your return to England, use 
 vour utmost diligence to find me some remunerative 
 employment ? 
 
 " Some occupations, health permitting, I am as 
 well qualified to undertake as many a man trained to 
 them. I could look after forest land, where there were
 
 26 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 cattle and horses. I could be a land steward or bailiff. 
 Can I well ask for less ? But I want no more. Your 
 world — that world in which I had a place — in which I 
 once, perhaps, was too conspicuous — that I abjure for 
 ever. I ask not to be one of it ; I seek only to be for- 
 gotten, to live unknown, to die in obscurity. 
 
 " To conclude. I shall do my best at the present 
 moment, under this fiery trial, to follow your counsel. 
 It is due to yourself. To-day you have a right to com- 
 mand. I will return to the Fleur de Ble and resume my 
 old apartment. None at Bruges is acquainted with 
 the real state of my circumstances ; therefore, the blot 
 that can never be wiped away may be made to appear 
 a mere bagatelle. 
 
 " I do not blame your host and hostess. I was an 
 utter stranger. They exercised considerable patience ; 
 they gave the child food and shelter after my arrest ; 
 they saw her safely to Ostend. 
 
 " Burn this letter immediately you have read it, and 
 you will oblige your very grateful kinsman, 
 
 George.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 That letter to Charles Daubigny came as a welcome 
 gleam of light. He dared now to propose that which 
 had been in his mind, but that which, without that 
 letter, he could not have had the audacity or the sang- 
 froid to utter. He sends, very early next morning, his 
 messenger to the maison de detention with a little note, 
 " May he visit his cousin there ? " for it is not 
 possible that on the instant George Graham can be 
 released. " Will his cousin permit him an interview ?" 
 
 We must confess a deep flush rose to Graham's very 
 temples at the idea of a meeting, and within those 
 walls ; but he scrawled a few words in reply, and 
 Charles was with him anon. 
 
 Let us hear what the homelier man of wealth says to 
 him who is all a grand fallen ruin : " Treat, or seem 
 to treat the affair," says the kind baronet, " as nothing. 
 You tell me you have had no one in your confidence 
 here. Carry yourself as though it had not affected you 
 in the least." 
 
 " It will be to very little purpose," replied the un- 
 fortunate man. "I must sink; it is inevitable. The 
 West Indian property is worse than nothing." 
 
 " That may recover itself. In the meantime, with
 
 28 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 your permission," and Sir Charles subdued his voice to 
 the meekest, gentlest tone (for his soul was full of pity 
 for his fallen foe), " in the meantime I suggest, that is, 
 may I take the liberty, George, of suggesting — " He 
 paused, as if fearful of going further. 
 
 " Whatever your better sense suggests I shall attend 
 to. Say on." 
 
 " You know the estate that came to me a few years 
 ago in such an unexpected manner." 
 
 George silently bows his head. 
 
 " I have been thinking, with all deference to your 
 better judgment, that were you and the child to go 
 and reside in the great useless house, and if you could 
 bring your mind to it, George — umph — become my 
 agent — my steward there," and as Sir Charles uttered 
 these words he did not dare look up ; he did not dare 
 to watch the countenance before him ; he kept his eyes 
 fast fixed upon the prison floor. 
 
 The voice that answered was not Graham's natural, 
 usual voice ; it was hoarse ; it told of the heart's heavy 
 burden, of the soul's deep suffering. 
 
 " If you really want a steward, if this is not a 
 mere pretence, a piece of charitable courtesy, if I 
 were certain I could be of real use to you, Charles, I 
 can work, but I cannot live on charity." 
 
 Ah ! this next hour, what need to follow their dis- 
 course. We need only tell that there and then it was 
 decided ; that within this brief space of time, that 
 during their interview in the rnaison de detention, 
 George Graham agreed to take service as his kinsman's 
 steward.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 29 
 
 destiny, what strange freaks dost thou play ! 
 How dost thou bow down the head that holds itself 
 the highest, and keep thy blessings on the lowly and 
 the meek ! 
 
 But we linger not in the prison. It is next morn- 
 ing, and we are in an apartment of the Fleur de Ble, 
 a long, lofty chamber, lighted by two tall Spanish 
 windows. These windows look out into the court-yard 
 of the hotel ; from them you also gain a view of a 
 small Dutch garden, sheltered by a venerable vine- 
 clad wall. 
 
 The vine leaves are now in their wide-spread beauty, 
 their brightly tinted glory ; dark clustering grapes 
 too are mingling. But to return. "We have not to 
 do this morning with the outside of the hotel, nor 
 with the outside of that apartment ; we must look 
 within. George Graham has just returned to it, and 
 the little Helene is weeping for joy on her father's 
 bosom. 
 
 " George, dearest George," murmurs the girl as again 
 and again in ecstasy she kisses the released and ruined 
 man. He could scarce refrain from tears himself. 
 He spoke nothing ; he was deadly pale ; his hand 
 trembled. 
 
 Oh ! gaze upon the ruined man thyself, my reader, 
 if haply I may bring him vividly before thee. 
 
 Blasted hope, money vainly spent, the disapproval 
 of the good, the coldness of friends, the slow torturing 
 delay of the law, the death of the woman he had 
 seduced, increasing poverty, had been his portion ; and 
 yet under such variety of suffering George Leslie
 
 30 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 Graham had lost nothing of his inherent manly grace, 
 his singular beauty of countenance. The dignity 
 nature had bestowed at least he yet retained. 
 
 Ah ! see the little maiden when her joy, her agita- 
 tion will permit. Behold her setting her idol in order. 
 She brushes his dark chestnut hair and places it in 
 waves upon his lofty brow. She smooths his moustache. 
 She descends from her elevated position and gazes into 
 his deep blue eyes. As the girl kneels down, kissing 
 in her delight even her father's very hands, resting 
 her head on his arms, circling one of his in her own, 
 her little - dainty nose more than once comes in close 
 contact with his coat-sleeve. 
 
 Presently a little sniff — another — she looks up 
 inquiringly into her father's face. 
 
 " What is it ? " asks he painfully. 
 
 " Papa," the girl murmurs, " only — almost nothing ; 
 but the coat does not smell nice like your coats ; it 
 smells of smoke." 
 
 " The air of the prison has defiled it," answers he, 
 rising hastily and in some agitation. "Leave me, 
 Helene, I must change these clothes, and may the 
 sight of them never blast my eyes again." 
 
 The young girl's heart was grieved by her own 
 thoughtless remark. Silently she withdrew, wandering 
 in the long corridor that led to their apartment till 
 her father, opening his door, recalled her. 
 
 The rustic suit George Graham, in her absence, had 
 assumed was the first that came to hand. It was of 
 coarse grey woollen cloth, but it was picturesque in 
 form and fashion. How mightily it became him ! An
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 31 
 
 artist had desired no finer, fitter subject on which to 
 exercise his pencil than the ruined man thus carelessly 
 attired. Yes, to-day, this hour, bowed down by 
 misery as he is, lingers round George Graham as a 
 halo, that air of distinction, that nobility of beauty 
 that we love to see depicted, that we pause to admire 
 in an old portrait. 
 
 Helene had not long re-entered her father's room 
 when some one tapped at the door. Waiting upon 
 him she loved so well, loved with an intense devotion, 
 the girl gently unfastens the door to find there a 
 waiter bearing a little note directed in due form, " G. 
 E. Leslie Graham, Esquire." 
 
 Sir Charles would leave Bruges next day. He 
 could not but feel some embarrassment, or rather some 
 pain, when in the presence of his kinsman. He 
 thought the feeling must be reciprocal. Hence, when 
 he had said and done all that he could tending to the 
 desired end, he felt it would be better for him to with- 
 draw. Under this impression he sends up now the 
 little note to Xo. 25, begging that Graham and Helene 
 will this evening, the last evening of his stay in the 
 hotel, dine with him down-stairs in Xo. 2. The 
 waiter was bidden to stay for an answer, but Helene 
 dismissed the man, feeling, as it were instinctively, 
 that he had better not be there just now. She was so 
 accustomed to her father's outbreaks of excitement, of 
 anguish, so afraid just now there might be one. 
 
 And the man is gone, and Helene watches her father 
 as he undergoes another martyrdom, as he paces the 
 great chamber in cruel meditation, asking himself
 
 32 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 whether it is possible he can obey his new masters 
 summons. 
 
 Can he bring his mind to this ? and this very even- 
 ing 2 To have to dress for dinner, to have to descend 
 the great staircase whereon he may meet how many 
 idle gazers, to have to wear so complete a mask. Yet 
 how refuse ? No, he could not refuse ; there was yet 
 much to hear and to arrange. Ah ! at length reason 
 prevails. " Go, Helene," he presently says, turning to 
 the girl, " go, there is no occasion for a note ; — go tell 
 Sir Charles w 7 e accept his invitation." 
 
 And Helene, bestowing upon her George yet one 
 more kiss, her rosy lips pressed upon his forehead, just 
 above his dark and knitted brows, runs away to do his 
 errand. 
 
 Descending the staircase she reaches No. 2, taps, 
 and waits, and the sensitive shrinking occupant, un- 
 conscious who is there, bids the person enter. Helene 
 obeys, and delivers her father's message. Charles 
 Daubigny gazes on the girl with an interest growing 
 deeper and deeper, but 'tis the music of her voice that 
 most touches him ; his soul drinks it in with almost 
 a sense of suffering, so acutely does it recall the past, 
 so like it is to the voice of Helene Vane. 
 
 Oh, reader, see George Leslie Graham; behold him 
 as an animal chosen for its perfection, as the noblest 
 animal in the herd ; see him as that might be decked 
 out for sacrifice. 
 
 The feelings of the gentleman must needs be sacri- 
 ficed upon the altar of necessity.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 33 
 
 And how does our victim go to the block and to the 
 fire ? Arrayed, despite his suffering, as in his days of 
 wild caprice, of wilful independence. 
 
 The dress-coat lined with silk, the snowy and 
 embroidered shirt, the spotless vest, the trousers, 
 made by the most renowned of London tailors, the 
 polished shoes with buckles, the silk socks, and his 
 long taper fingers lack not their golden glittering freight 
 of rings. 
 
 But though 'tis August, and the now sinking sun has 
 glowed fierce upon the reaper in the fields all day, the 
 hands, the long taper fingers of our victim have a death- 
 like chill. 'Tis our poor friend's last appearance on the 
 stage of life. To-morrow George Leslie Graham will 
 be no more. Henceforth he will be as the forgotten 
 dead, his career ended. Who will recognise in Mr. 
 Graham, the steward at Avonmore, the man who claimed 
 the title of Gartmore, and who ran away with the old 
 banker's wife ? 
 
 But we have not to do with the past. We are on the 
 principal staircase of the Fleur de Ble. We see George 
 Graham, accompanied by Helene, descending this stair- 
 case en route for No. 2. 
 
 Eendered sensitive to the highest degree by his late 
 calamity, Graham had imagined that his ever adverse 
 fortune would bring him in contact, ere he could reach 
 the saloon, with various English idlers, frequenters of, 
 or residents in, the hotel. 
 
 As it fell out, he met with but one of this vapid 
 breed, but one particularly obnoxious to himself, — 
 a pompous fellow of common caste, who had gone 
 
 vol. L c
 
 34 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 abroad to sink his origin, — a little fellow with plenty 
 of money, but with a purely vulgar mind. 
 
 On entering his wife's apartment, immediately after 
 his encounter with Graham, the little swaggerer broke 
 out thus : " I met that proud devil on the stairs as I 
 came up, looking for all the world like Lucifer himself. 
 I wonder the prison held him as long as it did. Why 
 didn't the fool, like another Samson, command the pri- 
 son walls to fall and crush the Philistines beneath their 
 ruin ? I fancy the Mortiers have put their foot in it 
 nicely. Madame herself avowed to me this afternoon 
 that she and her husband had had to apologise for their 
 precipitancy, and that to appease his grand relation 
 here, she had positively stooped to beg * as a favour 
 that Graham on his release would resume his lodgings 
 in her house." 
 
 Thus is it man mistakes his fellow-man. Thus is it 
 man beneath a proud, a cold exterior, can hide a hum- 
 bled spirit and a breaking heart. 
 
 Who indeed of the uninitiated, what stranger who 
 had gazed on Graham that August eve on his way to 
 No. 2, could have supposed that such an indignity had 
 so lately been put upon him ? He looked so noble, his 
 form was so erect, and when presently he is seated at 
 the dinner-table, this same stranger might well suppose 
 that he is the man of power, that he is about to confer 
 the favour, the benefit. 
 
 Sir Charles, very pale, very shrinking, stooping a little 
 more than usual, though a year the younger man, looked 
 in this hour of trial the elder of the two, — looked as 
 though he were the supplicant, as indeed he felt himself
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 35 
 
 to be. Yes, our man of imagination, ever suffering from 
 excess of sensitiveness, sat now watching the man 
 opposite to him, precisely as you and I, my reader, 
 might watch a noble-spirited but ill-broken horse har- 
 nessed to our car. Yes, our poor Sir Charles sat dread- 
 ing some outbreak, some restiveness, to defeat, to mar 
 his progress, to undo the plans he had been at such 
 pains in his own mind to weave for the girl's benefit 
 and happiness. Sir Charles could not read the soul, he 
 could only see his haughty rival. 
 
 Oh, soul, what haclst thou endured ! oh, heart, why 
 hadst thou not broken ! oh, life, why hadst thou lin- 
 gered on, surmounting defeat, disaster ! 
 
 But we must not linger. Helene sits on one side of 
 the dinner-table, her great blue eyes alternately wander- 
 ing from the countenance she loves best to that of her 
 new acquaintance. She is mightily interested, and 
 almost forgets to eat, her young innocent mind is so on 
 the stretch. How lovely the girl looked, and with 
 nothing to set off her beauty ; — a washed white 
 muslin dress, of thick muslin, embroidered it was, 
 certainly, but it was not new. She had somewhat 
 outgrown it, too ; it was a trifle shorter than it 
 should have been, it came down only to the knee, 
 but she had silk stockings and pretty shoes to set 
 off the prettiest of feet. Her hair was golden brown, 
 it was left quite to nature, and it fell in heavy 
 masses on her creamy shoulders, for Helene was not 
 fair, was not all white and pink ; she was a brunette, 
 born to be one, a little gipsy in her cradle. And her 
 face, her neck, her arms were veritably of a rich creamy
 
 36 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 hue. But she was a beautiful child nevertheless, there 
 dwelt such depth of beauty in her long-shaped eyes, 
 the lashes were so silky and so dark, the pencilled brows 
 so perfect ; in the rosy lips and pearly teeth there was 
 no fault ; the nose as yet was small, and somewhat 
 undecided as to its class, but that time and woman- 
 hood would alter. 
 
 And ever and anon, despite his anxiety, Sir Charles 
 contrives to steal a cautious glance. He listens as the 
 young girl speaks ; her voice is as a faint echo of that 
 music that once had sent a thrill through his soul, and 
 is now but as a dirge, a funereal dirge. Though he 
 half envies his cousin, yet thankful he is to see 
 how intensely the girl loves her father, and still 
 more thankful he is to hear how tenderly Graham 
 speaks to her. 
 
 The dinner is over, the coffee has been served, sipped, 
 dismissed ; the shadows of evening are falling ; a little 
 breeze enters at the tall open windows. "Was there an 
 awkwardness, an embarrassment in the little party? 
 No, that was over. The preface had been read, and 
 they were lost in the interest of the story. As the two 
 men paced the long saloon, they were discussing matters 
 of so much interest that the present was lost in the 
 future. " It is a good cottage enough," murmured Sir 
 Charles, " if you would like living there better than in 
 the great house." 
 
 " I should infinitely prefer it," returns the ruined man. 
 
 " But you will go straight hence to Avonmore ; you 
 will, George, and reside there while the cottage is 
 undergoing the necessary repairs."
 
 Oicr Little Gipsy. $7 
 
 " I cannot sufficiently thank you," murmurs Graham ; 
 " all I fear is, that my services will be but poor requital. 
 I can never give anything in exchange ; I can never 
 repay your kindness ; but I must learn humility." 
 
 " There is plenty to be done. You will find it no 
 sinecure. The property has been horribly neglected. 
 You see Mathieson could not attend to the two estates, 
 lying in such opposite directions." 
 
 " Well,, this is consolation — encouragement," sighs 
 poor Graham ; " to be obliged to be active will do me 
 good. I am not afraid of work, and you know, Charles, 
 I am honest, I shan't do you," with a laugh. 
 
 Helene had been listening intently to every word 
 that fell from her companion's lips. Graham was 
 standing near a sofa when the little bitter laugh escaped 
 him. Mounting on the sofa cushion, putting an arm 
 round her father's neck, her lips close to his ear, the 
 girl whispers, "Papa, tell me, are you going to be a 
 servant to Sir Charles ?" 
 
 "What does she whisper?" asked Charles Daubigny. 
 
 " I only asked papa whether he was going to be your 
 servant," replies the girl, and as she says this, a deep 
 blush of shame or wounded pride overspreads her 
 beauty. 
 
 " Your papa is my cousin, Helene, of the same blood 
 as myself," somewhat hurriedly interposed Sir Charles, 
 his pulse growing unequal in its beating, throbbing 
 with dread, lest the girl's question should wound his 
 kinsman so deeply as to cause a start, a reaction, a 
 retrograde movement ; then added without a pause, 
 * He is merely about to do me the favour, the service
 
 38 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 of looking after a vast tract of land. What he said 
 was said in mere jest — it was nonsense." 
 
 " George," murmurs the girl, her arm still round her 
 father's neck, " you shall not talk nonsense, don't." 
 
 "When shall you expect me to he at Avonmore?" 
 suddenly asks Graham, as one who spoke with an effort, 
 as one roused to a sense of deeper suffering. 
 
 " With all regard to your own convenience, I should 
 say immediately. For my interest, the sooner you are 
 there the better. Of course, travelling at my charge," 
 and the last few words were spoken how meekly, 
 softly ! Yet had Sir Charles looked up, he had seen 
 that, meekly and softly as these few last words had 
 been uttered, their import had brought the colour to 
 his kinsman's brow. 
 
 Yet Graham triumphed over himself, and answered 
 bravely, " I shall only be too thankful to quit this 
 d — d place, and exchange its gossip, its espionage, for 
 the freedom, the seclusion of a wilder life." 
 
 "In addition to the yearly sum we agreed upon," 
 murmurs Sir Charles, his eyes fixed on the ground, 
 " you will avail yourself of the fishing and the shooting. 
 I know, George, it is all so easy to you." 
 
 George silently bent his head. 
 
 "And you will see what sort of men the present 
 keepers are, whether they are decent orderly fellows ; 
 and the dogs, how they use the poor brutes. And I 
 think," continued Sir Charles, " it will be best to employ 
 the people in the village to do the cottage repairs ; that 
 is, if it can be so managed. It is pleasant to be well 
 with our humbler neighbours."
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 39 
 
 " That is quite my idea," murmurs Graham. 
 
 "Ami remember," pursued the baronet, whose heart 
 was overflowing with zeal and hope, " remember, I wish 
 the cottage to be made as ornamental as may be. I 
 suggest a verandah, a greenhouse, better and taller 
 chimneys ; no, the chimneys will do. I remember 
 noticing the chimneys. But you are a man of taste. 
 Expense is no object. In fact, I feel it to be a matter 
 of duty to lay out some money in the village, or rather 
 to employ the people there." 
 
 "And you think I should proceed to Avonmore 
 without delay?" 
 
 "Without any delay. The weather is fine. The 
 country air will do Helene good. I have already writ- 
 ten to Mrs. Bird, who takes charge of the house. You 
 remember Mrs. Bird, George, our old nurse ?" 
 
 "Ah !" cried Graham, with a gleam of nature in his 
 voice, "for Helene's sake I am glad. She will be a 
 great comfort to my daughter, — a sort of person I may 
 put some faith in." 
 
 " I have enjoined her to prepare immediately for 
 your reception. You have only to write and name the 
 day, the hour when she may expect you." 
 
 " You are very, very thoughtful, very kind," cried 
 Graham, his heart rather too full, aching all the more 
 under a sense of benefits conferred or about to be, " and 
 now I think Helene and I must bid you good-night. 
 The chimes are reminding me," and as he spoke, their 
 music sounded soft and sad, and then the clock of des 
 Halles tolled the hour of ten. 
 
 " Good-night then," cried the sad owner of Avon-
 
 40 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 more, and as the girl holds out her hand to receive his 
 last greeting, Sir Charles, after pressing it tenderly, 
 places on the little palm a small but heavy package, if 
 package that could be called, which was only a piece of 
 note-paper wholly unfastened. "Before you go into 
 the wilds of Avonmore you must get yourself some 
 pretty things," he said, as he performed this thoughtless 
 feat. 
 
 The girl could see what was in the half-sheet of 
 note-paper. She stood a moment irresolute, then 
 taking Graham by the arm, and almost whispering, she 
 said, "Papa, he has given me money — gold; I must 
 not have it, must I ?" 
 
 " Charles," cried Graham, seeming to forget his new 
 character and its requisite humility, while a frown 
 clouded his fine features, " Charles, this is pushing 
 your generosity too far. The girl can't take it. Any 
 little present you like to make her she will be happy 
 to accept." 
 
 " I beg pardon," murmurs Sir Charles ; " an inad- 
 vertency, a mistake, my dear," taking the package 
 which the girl held out ; " something else. We must 
 manage better," and he gave a great sigh. 
 
 " Papa, you have vexed him," softly whispers Helene 
 to her father ; " but I must not, must I ?" 
 
 Helene was not answered. Sir Charles put a ques- 
 tion to Graham almost at the same moment. " Will 
 you suffer Helene to take a little walk with me to- 
 morrow morning before I leave ? We may perhaps 
 pick up some trifles — a souvenir ?" 
 
 " Certainly," replied George, his features now
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 41 
 
 smoothed down again. " You will go with Sir Charles, 
 won't you?" addressing Helene. 
 
 "Where?" inquired the little maiden. " In the 
 street to a shop ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Charles Daubigny. 
 
 " Well, I will go. What time must I be ready ?" 
 
 " Not later than eleven," answered he. 
 
 " Shall I have to come to your room — to this room ?" 
 
 " Yes, at eleven."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 We have said that Helene was a very lovely child, 
 but we have not yet, perhaps, mentioned that nature 
 had stamped upon her an air of distinction ; that 
 nature, assisted by careful training, had given to her 
 movements, to her manner of walking, a peculiar grace. 
 
 And now it is a quarter-past eleven, and Helene is 
 walking out of the hotel yard with Charles Daubigny. 
 He might well be proud of the appearance of his little 
 companion, and he was proud of it ; but he w T as a 
 good, a worthy man, and as he surveyed Helene's 
 pretty face and graceful figure, her little feet and well- 
 turned ankles, surveyed them too with the eyes of a 
 fastidious critic in female beauty, he could not repress 
 heaving a deep, a bitter sigh. He remembered her 
 mother's beauty ; he recalled the faults, the sin of 
 Helene Vane. He remembered that but for the poor 
 dead woman's attractions, her grace, her style, she 
 most likely had been living now, respected and sur- 
 rounded by every worldly blessing ; he shuddered, he 
 trembled for her child. He felt assured that Helene's 
 young life had been full of exposure to evil. He 
 knew that her mother, from the time of her downfall, 
 had resided almost continuously abroad ; he suspected,
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 43 
 
 from his knowledge of the careless nature of his early 
 love, that her child must have been left very much to 
 the care of its foreign nurse. 
 
 Charles Daubigny was right. The little Helene 
 had been under the most pernicious, the worst of 
 influences. She had been carried when a baby by a 
 French woman. She had had for a nursery governess 
 a foreigner. Had it not been for the young Helene's 
 passionate love for her father, her heart, her soul, had 
 been full of guile. She had been false and mean; 
 that is to say, if example, if teaching can influence, for 
 her foreign nurse and her foreign governess had been 
 adepts in craft and deceit. 
 
 The unfortunate child had had, as it were, no mental 
 education. Lessons in dancing, even in infancy, she 
 had had in plenty, and well she had profited by them. 
 But she had never had an English person to teach her 
 English ; hence she occasionally spoke and wrote her 
 own language w T rong, and wrote and spoke French 
 wrong too. Hence her childish discourse w T as a 
 strange mixture of the two languages ; and occa- 
 sionally escaped her exclamations or sentences in 
 French so fraught with precocity and affectation as 
 to testify but too w T ell who had been her teachers 
 and companions. 
 
 Happy was it for Helene's heart and mind that the 
 sad combination of death, of sorrow, of failing means, 
 had brought her in closer communion with her sterner, 
 loftier parent — had brought her often to be his sole 
 companion. Graham himself, unlike poor Helene Vane, 
 was truthful to the extreme ; he had an abhorrence of
 
 44 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 artifice. His little daughter loved him, but she feared 
 him too. In his presence her French folly was sup- 
 pressed. 
 
 But children, especially young girls, have remarkable 
 penetration, and our little lady presently discovered 
 that Charles Daubigny was less to be feared than her 
 father. 
 
 And now we return from this digression to the 
 moment when Sir Charles and Helene are leaving the 
 hotel, to the moment when he breathed forth that long- 
 deep sigh. 
 
 " Why are you so dull ? " asked the girl as she 
 listened to this evidence of depression. 
 
 " I was thinking of you, Helene," he answered ; 
 " thinking that you have no one to see to you." 
 
 " Papa does." 
 
 " Does he teach you to kneel down in all humility 
 and pray to God to make you a good girl ?" 
 
 " How do you know that I say my prayers at all ?" 
 asked the girl playfully. 
 
 " I feel sure that you do." 
 
 " I don't kneel down then ; I say them to myself in 
 bed, and not them but it, for I only say the Lord's 
 Prayer/ 
 
 " And you do not understand one word of it, eh?" 
 
 "Well I cannot quite understand it. Yes, I do, 
 though. I ask to be forgiven as I forgive. I ask to be 
 delivered from evil." 
 
 " And is your soul in your prayer, Helene ? Are 
 your thoughts fixed on the majesty of God ? Do you 
 picture to yourself Christ your Saviour, who, in the
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 45 
 
 midst of intensest suffering, was yet all- merciful, even 
 to the thief beside Him on the cross ?" 
 
 " No, I don't think of all this/' murmured Helene, 
 looking somewhat disconcerted. 
 
 " Will you do me a favour ?" asked her grave and 
 sentimental companion. 
 
 " Ah, oui, certainement," cried the girl, listening in 
 childish surprise and gratification at so unexpected a 
 request. 
 
 " Well, then, when you wake in the morning at 
 Avonmore, fail not to remember this. Eemember that 
 Charles Daubigny, though far away, wherever he may 
 be, is asking God, is asking Jesus to spare and to save 
 you. Helene, you will do me a like service ; you will 
 pray for me." 
 
 " A quel heure est votre re veil ?" 
 
 " My servant calls me at seven." 
 
 " Then I must be vjalced a sept heures moins un 
 quart. Nous devons nous s'abaisser au meme instant." 
 
 " God, Helene, is in all places at the same time," 
 continued Charles Daubigny ; " He will be equally 
 present with you as with me. Thus there will be 
 established betwixt us, as it were, a mystic bond of 
 union." 
 
 * I do not quite understand ; yes, I think I do," 
 murmured the girl, her beautiful and intelligent coun- 
 tenance showing the interest she took in the words of 
 her companion. 
 
 " Thy soul, child, and mine ascending at the same 
 time." 
 
 " I see," cried Helene, " c'est ainsie : our spirits
 
 4-6 Ow Little Gipsy. 
 
 shall meet en ciel, devant le trone de Dieu. Though we 
 be parted est le ceci que vous avez pensee, Charle ? But 
 I must not call you Charles though papa does. He 
 says I am using too much freedom ; and besides — " and 
 the girl paused. 
 
 "What would you say more, Helene? what besides?" 
 
 "With downcast eyes and blushing cheek the girl 
 added, "C'est un nom que je deteste. C'est nom 
 indigne de vous. Have you only one name ? My 
 papa has many." 
 
 " Yes, I too have other names, but I never use them." 
 
 " But you may tell them to me." 
 
 " Well, before Charles stands Louis." 
 
 " Oh ! that is the name I love ; quel ange d'un nom ! 
 Saint Louis ; yes, I may call you that." 
 
 " No, indeed ; people would laugh. Helene, you 
 must not be fantastic." Ah ! he recognised in this 
 waywardness, this levity, this caprice, a touch of the 
 Helene who was gone, and with an irrepressible sigh 
 he added, " Helene, you must not follow every whim ; 
 you must learn to be reasonable. But here is the shop. 
 See, we are passing it." 
 
 " Oh yes," cried the lively girl, " and it is one of the 
 shops that I am always longing to go into ;" and as 
 Helene uttered these words they entered the repository 
 of pretty trifles. 
 
 " I want to see the handsomest, best fitted work-box 
 that you have, Madame," murmured the baronet. 
 
 " Voila," cried the Flemish woman, bringing forward 
 a large painted Spa work-box. " It is de admiration, 
 l'envie de tous les dames ici."
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 47 
 
 " Helen e, do you like it ?" inquired Sir Charles. 
 
 "Yes," replied the girl; "but I do not work well 
 nor much." 
 
 "Then you do not care for it ?" 
 
 " I like that better," cried she, pointing to another 
 box set open, a Spa box lined with crimson and velvet, 
 and filled with gilded glass scent-bottles. 
 
 "You ought to work ; it is right for girls to work ; 
 you shall have the two boxes." 
 
 " That will be having too much," murmured the girl, 
 blushing at the rebuke from and the generosity of her 
 patron, " won't it ?" 
 
 " No, not at all. I should have liked to have given 
 you a much handsomer present." Then Sir Charles 
 paid for his gifts, and ordered them to be sent imme- 
 diately to Miss Graham's room, No. 25 Fleur de Ble. 
 
 Madame Yolant, who had heard the whole story of 
 Graham's imprisonment, of the sudden and opportune 
 appearance of the man of wealth, curtsied and won- 
 dered as Helene and her companion quitted the shop. 
 
 " I am not satisfied with these poor gifts," murmured 
 the young girl's loving patron. " Is there — is there 
 any other place hereabouts where we could find an 
 addition ?" 
 
 " There is another," softly answered the girl. " But 
 you must not give me anything else. Papa explained 
 to me the meaning of a souvenir. It is just such a 
 present as you have given me." 
 
 " Show me the other shop." 
 
 Silently the girl retraced her steps, and pointed to a 
 modistes, gay with ribbons, silks, and laces.
 
 48 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Is that the ribbon ?" asked Sir Charles, pointing to 
 one the girl's eyes were riveted on. 
 
 "Yes, I love it," cried Helene, "it is my darling 
 favourite bine." 
 
 " Let us capture it then," he said ; " but a man 
 doesn't ask for ribbon ; you must desire the woman to 
 put it up." 
 
 They entered the shop of the modiste; the girl 
 desired her to bring the ribbon. This woman had 
 heard the story of the rich Englishman, she guessed 
 that the stranger before her was no other, and with the 
 rapidity of a practised hand she contrived to bring 
 forward on the instant and attract his notice to a box 
 of delicately embroidered lace-trimmed cambric pocket- 
 handkerchiefs. 
 
 Sir Charles could appreciate their merit. He under- 
 stood somethiDg of cambric ; he was very particular 
 about the delicacy of his own handkerchiefs. He 
 examined the dozen placed before him — saw that they 
 were worthy to bestow. He had not thought the two 
 boxes quite first-rate, but here was a gift worthy of his 
 little princess. Paying for the ribbon then and the 
 handkerchiefs, he meekly said, " We shall not need to 
 have such small things sent, shall we, Helene ? I can 
 carry this flat box, you the roll of ribbon." 
 
 But Madame protested that it would be a pleasure 
 to her to send the articles, and Sir Charles, yielding to 
 the modiste's importunity, ordered them, as he had 
 done the boxes, to Miss Graham's room. 
 
 "Are they for me?" inquired the girl, as together 
 they quitted the modiste's shop.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 49 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Papa will think I have been greedy," said Helene, 
 musing. 
 
 "Do you like them?" asked her companion, gazing 
 upon the girl, and struck by the beauty of her hesitat- 
 ing troubled countenance. 
 
 " They are lovely ; but papa will say I am too 
 young to have such handkerchiefs. I like to have 
 them ; but will he be angry ? " 
 
 " No," murmured her loving patron. 
 
 As together Sir Charles and Helene rather loitered 
 than walked along the grand place during this trivial 
 discussion, how little did he know that he was an 
 object of curiosity, a subject for discussion ! Charles 
 Daubigny had forgotten that in a corner of the great 
 square was a public room in which the idle English 
 gentlemen residing in Bruges met for billiards and 
 gossip. Some of these poor vacant-minded men were 
 now gazing from the open windows of the public room. 
 There was also a little knot of idlers at the doorway. 
 
 "Lucky devil," cried one, "was Graham." 
 
 "Lucky indeed," muttered another. "I've known 
 fellows shut up years." 
 
 " I wish I 'd got such an old prig of a cousin," mut- 
 tered a rakish-looking boy, " wouldn't I go along at a 
 good pace ! " 
 
 " The gal there 's devilish pretty," drawled out an 
 insufferable coxcomb. " She '11 be just such another 
 fast one as her dam." 
 
 But we leave these worthies to the glories of their 
 own discourse. 
 
 VOL. 1. D
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 Avonmoee, the great house wherein for the present we 
 are about to establish Graham and Helene, was indeed, 
 as Sir Charles had termed it, a great useless house. It 
 had been so for many years. 
 
 Sir Alfred, as we have mentioned, had met his death 
 steeple-chasing. His inclination for such sport, his 
 interest in horse-flesh, had been an inheritance, origin- 
 ating in, and bequeathed to him by a father who had 
 carried his sporting propensities to such a length ; who 
 was so passionately addicted to hunting, racing, and the 
 like pursuits, that he had found a residence secluded as 
 Avonmore, and so completely out of the sporting world, 
 a perfect nuisance. 
 
 Avonmore had been built by the ancestor of these 
 sporting baronets in the reign of Queen Anne, or rather 
 in her reign it had been completed and decorated. At 
 this period, the smaller and older habitation, standing 
 close upon the spot, and which hitherto had been the 
 family seat, was demolished. 
 
 The "great useless house," the more pretentious 
 residence, was built in the Italian style, and was said 
 to be a copy of a celebrated villa or palace of that 
 fairer clime.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 51 
 
 There was nothing ancient, nothing picturesque left 
 at Avonmore. It was but a stately edifice, with an 
 approach, a portico, a hal], a staircase, suites of apart- 
 ments, perfect in their way. 
 
 There were, indeed, magnificent forest trees around, 
 alive with black rooks. The trees had sheltered the 
 picturesque old house pulled down ; the rooks were 
 descended from those who had flitted over that. 
 
 The father of the man who had been so bent on 
 making Charles Daubigny a baronet, had felt himself 
 completely out of his element in this elegantly designed 
 and appointed mansion. Everything was against him. 
 His next neighbour on one side was a Catholic Peer, 
 rigid in devotion, abhorring the life of a sportsman ; 
 while on the other side of Avonmore was the country 
 seat of a great politician, almost always absent from it. 
 
 After fretting and pining some time, Sir Thomas — 
 " Tom, that best of fellows," — took the resolution of a 
 barbarian, of a Goth. He had no power to sell his 
 house and estate, and he cared not to let it. He was 
 rich enough to buy another place, and he bought one 
 near Newmarket, and transferred thither, from the 
 hereditary home, whatever he esteemed most valuable. 
 
 Hence Avonmore, during the rest of his protracted 
 existence, and during his son's briefer reign, remained 
 neglected and tenantless, as we may be sure it had 
 been since the apathetic Sir Charles had possessed it. 
 
 Sir Thomas had married late in the day ; not till 
 after he had established himself in his new sporting 
 home. His wife had lived little more than a year after 
 their marriage. It is doubtful whether she ever saw 
 
 UN'VERs/Ty of 
 
 H-UN01S LIBRARY
 
 52 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 Avonmore. Thus many things had been left in the 
 house a lady of taste, or a man not barbaric, had cer- 
 tainly prized, — old china, a library of old books, pictures, 
 family portraits. 
 
 Have we not said that there was nothing picturesque 
 about the great house wherein for the present Graham 
 and Helene were to be domiciled? Well, we are not 
 sure that our description of Avonmore is correct. 
 
 Would not some eyes have found the romantic and 
 the picturesque in this vast and fair Italian-looking 
 structure ; in its two lofty towers, rising at either end ; 
 in its central and lower portion, adorned as it was by 
 balconies and balustrades ; in its palace-like flight of 
 steps, its imposing portico ; in the great cedar shadow- 
 ing ; in the mighty elms, alive with rooks, hard by ? 
 We submit the case as doubtful to our reader's imagina- 
 tion, and proceed to Graham's future home, the cottage. 
 Here we are quite certain. The cottage was most 
 picturesque ; it had been designed entirely with that 
 view ; it was the realisation of a romantic woman's 
 dream. 
 
 It had been built by the sister of our sporting baronet 
 the first, — by a woman, though of the same blood, 
 as unlike sporting Tom as it was possible for woman 
 to be. 
 
 When her father too untimely died, Miss Daubigny 
 found, as a matter of course, that she no longer had a 
 real undisputed right to remain in the great house ; and, 
 having money, she determined forthwith on building 
 herself a home as near to the hereditary mansion as 
 might be. Little did she foresee, when the cottage was
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 53 
 
 designed, when the building commenced and progressed, 
 that brother Tom, having lost all wholesome restraint, 
 would presently fly off to Newmarket and leave her in 
 complete isolation. 
 
 But we are not going into a family history, but to- 
 wards the cottage, and now let us wend our way thither. 
 
 We are in the principal road of the park ; we have 
 passed the mansion. On our left we perceive a winding 
 lane or carriage drive ; we turn down, already we are 
 charmed. On one side this winding way is bounded 
 by rocky stones. Every crevice has its proper tenant : 
 a fir, a silver birch, a fern, enduring yet, though she who 
 ordered and superintended has been dust or beneath the 
 cold earth so long. Ivy, too, ivy creeps and steals, 
 unshorn, untouched, in exquisite neglect. 
 
 Oh, who that hath bent them over rocky boundaries 
 or old stone walls, who is there hath not marvelled over 
 nature's glory ? How in such places nature revels, loves 
 to hide ! But we must not be beguiled by fern and moss 
 and ivy, we must follow the path or drive till it brings 
 us before Miss Daubigny's cottage. 
 
 The winding way grows duskier, more enclosed on 
 either side, more shadowy. It is thick set with silver 
 birch, with mountain ash, with dark and silver fir, till 
 suddenly, how beautifully breaks the home scene upon 
 the eye ! Yes, as if by magic you find yourself suddenly 
 within, as it were, a vast semicircle, bounded here by 
 rock, there by masses of dark evergreens. The cottage, 
 low, rambling, irregular, and thatched, with ornamental 
 chimneys rising high, is now, alas ! in a mournful state 
 of dilapidation.
 
 54 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 Its windows, which are most artistic and effective in 
 shape, lack not rich stained glass, but wildly flap the 
 red rose branches against their gorgeous tinted panes 
 and cobwebs half obscure. 
 
 Ah, reader, dost thou remember that Charles Dau- 
 bigny, when talking to Graham, suggested the addition 
 of a greenhouse, a verandah? Poor man, when he 
 visited the cottage, where were his eyes ? The dearest 
 little conservatory adjoined the morning-room, a veran- 
 dah of rustic wood ran round the cottage. The veran- 
 dah, indeed, through time and neglect, had in some 
 places fallen to the ground, and it is possible the rich 
 man counted one of such humble material as nothing. 
 Yet its jasmine, its passion-flower, its vine survived. 
 Climbers once handled, trained so fondly by Miss Dau- 
 bigny's own fair hands. Oh, to what neglect had her 
 dream of romance been subjected ! What in the world 
 did nephew Sir Alfred care for his dead old maiden 
 aunt's cottage ? He was up to his ears in betting-books, 
 jockeys, and boxing-gloves. 
 
 And the well-paid but overworked steward, what 
 cared he ? he had, however, excused himself. He had 
 muttered, " That such an out-of-the-way place, so far 
 from London, wasn't likely to be sought after; the rich 
 wouldn't care for 't and it wasn't suited to the poor." 
 
 But we must not quote Mr Mathieson, who was 
 born and bred to be a steward; we must return to 
 the man who is to be a steward, despite that nature 
 seems as it were to protest against it. Ah, yes, 
 even now comes Graham along the winding way, 
 Mrs. Bird meekly following, for she remembers Leslie
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 55 
 
 Graham when he was thought to be such a very fine 
 fellow, when the young ladies courted his smiles, and 
 the young gentlemen were proud to be called his 
 friends. Graham was really noble ; he knew how to be 
 kind and civil to his inferiors without losing the least 
 particle of his native loftiness. And as the twain wend 
 their way towards the cottage, he is discoursing 
 with Mrs. Bird, who, so long shut up in the gloomy 
 great house, is quite glad to have some one to talk to 
 her. And as they wend their way along the lane, 
 Helene, who was still too much fatigued to venture 
 out, was writing her postscript, finishing a letter Graham 
 had promised to write to Sir Charles on his arrival at 
 Avonmore. 
 
 And now the new steward and Mrs. Bird are before 
 the cottage, and we confess a thrill of disappointment 
 runs through the stranger's heart as he glances on the 
 fallen verandah and the cobwebby windows as his mind 
 gathers in the great work of renovation before him. It 
 would be many weeks, perhaps two months, he could 
 see, before the cottage could be restored to order. 
 
 Mrs. Bird saw his disappointed look. " You '11 not 
 think so badly of it, sir, when you 've seen further," she 
 says, applying the key to the principal door. 
 
 And Mrs. Bird was right ; rain, damp, neglect had 
 not penetrated into the heart of the cottage. 
 
 Enough was yet left unhurt, untouched, to show 
 Graham that he had only to Set his shoulder to the 
 wheel. 
 
 To call in the village painter, and himself to superin- 
 tend, to set the village bricklayer to work outside, to
 
 56 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 set the gardeners at the great house to restore the 
 neglected garden, was this a very hard measure 
 when money was no object, when Sir Charles was 
 blushing, absolutely blushing at his own want of in- 
 terest in the property, and would be so thankful to do 
 some good in the village ? 
 
 Letter written betwixt Graham and Helene the morn- 
 ing after their arrival at Avonmore : — 
 
 "Deak Charles, — As we arranged at parting, I 
 report our arrival here. We were fortunate enough to 
 reach Avonmore yesterday evening without having 
 encountered adventure or mischance. 
 
 " The worst trifle I have to record, the extreme exhaus- 
 tion of Helene ere our tedious journey hither by coach 
 was ended. I ought perhaps to have had more con- 
 sideration for her ; I ought to have put up for a few 
 hours in London, but a delay there, involving in it the 
 probability of running against some of my old acquaint- 
 ances, would have been so excessively unpleasant. 
 
 " The girl is all right this morning, has eaten her 
 breakfast ; but I must confess her inability to taste food, 
 her faintness on our arrival, a little scared me. Mrs. 
 Bird was all attention ; in my unfortunate position 
 your old nurse is an invaluable assistant. 
 
 " Helene tells me that she wishes to add a few words 
 to my note, that she also would like to direct it ; I 
 therefore leave it in her keeping. Should you find 
 eccentricities in the girl and in her mode of writing 
 and speaking, call to mind by way of apology the 
 isolated life she has inevitably led. — Faithfully yours, 
 
 "G. E. Leslie Graham."
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 57 
 
 ■ Deae Sir Chaeles, pour moi plus cher St. Louis, — 
 Papa has written and told you how I was hier au soir. 
 Madame Bird se proposee et je l'ai permettee qu'elle me 
 deshabiller et qu'elle me mettre au lit. Je ne savais 
 moins que rien ce nuit la passee. Mais au matin — a 
 mon reveil, quand mes yeux ont restee sur les rideaux 
 de lit, sur les rideaux de cramoisi, tiree tiree presque 
 tout autour, et puis, mes yeux ont traversee la chambre 
 de lit vaste et morne pours un moment Je fremi. I 
 could not tell where I was. ' Mais tout-a-coup — tout 
 presentement — la "verite s'est m'arrivee/ I murmured. 
 C'est la maison d'Avonraore. C'est la Palais de St. 
 Louis, and then Je pense a toi et de tout ce que tu m'a 
 dit. Je me levais. Je me jetais aux genoux. I asked 
 peace for you. J'ai prie a Dieu qu'il m'amende. Oh, 
 that I were une colombe — a dove. Then tous les 
 matins a mon reveil I would fly to you. Mais on ne 
 peut pas voler sans ailes, and I can only send you these 
 poor words. Piepondez ta petite Helene, cher St. 
 Louis :"
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Ix ignorance of the apathy that so long had held Sir 
 Charles in its thrall, unconscious that his attachment 
 to her own mother had been the origin, the source of 
 his melancholy and indifference, Helene wondered much 
 at her patron's disregard for so noble a residence as 
 Avonmore. 
 
 After musing on the subject, the girl dreamily 
 inquires of her father, " Is that house Sir Charles uses 
 as his country home as fine a house as this, papa ?" 
 
 " No," answers Graham, "it is not; and what is a little 
 remarkable, there, as here, the old and interesting 
 building was pulled down by some tasteless blockhead. 
 However, Brierly has its conveniences. It is much 
 nearer to London than Avonmore, and it is a really 
 comfortable house to live in." 
 
 "As he never uses this place, papa, why did you 
 object to remain here ?" 
 
 " I should have been excessively uneasy here, incap- 
 able of tranquillity," answers Graham, " for many 
 reasons — reasons which you do not comprehend. One 
 of these reasons, however, I may as well explain. I 
 should have lived in perpetual dread of interference,
 
 Our Little Gipsy, 59 
 
 intrusion, inundation. Charles himself is inoffensive 
 enough, but he has a set of people hanging on to him 
 — a sister-in-law — my abhorrence." Helene opens 
 wide her beautiful eyes, and listens intently as Graham 
 proceeds. " Charles Daubigny had one brother, who 
 married when extremely young. He was caught at in 
 despair by a rather jwssde beauty — a girl who had 
 flirted herself out at the elbows — a girl poor and proud, 
 who never would have married him had she seen a 
 better chance. Cyril Daubigny had no fortune; he 
 merely held a place in a Government office. He died 
 young. His widow, avaricious, selfish, imperious, 
 impertinent as she is, contrives, however, to live like 
 a woman of fashion. Your new acquaintance, Helene, 
 Charles Daubigny, is a kind of sponge she is for ever 
 squeezing. By a thousand artful ways he is made to 
 conduce to her comfort. He is weak enough to support 
 herself and her family in luxury/' 
 
 " And is he so silly as not to know how artful she 
 is ? " asks Helene. 
 
 " He may be conscious of her duplicity, but he is too 
 apathetic, too careless to resist." 
 
 " You, papa, do you know this odious woman ?" 
 
 "I did know her ; I have witnessed some of her 
 manoeuvres ; I have smarted under her incivility. I 
 am satisfied, if she had it in her power, she would do 
 me any ill office. I am satisfied that if I had occupied 
 the great house, she would have thrust herself and her 
 family into it merely to annoy me, to cause me to 
 decamp. As a bailiff in a small cottage I may possibly 
 be beneath her notice."
 
 60 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Oh, papa !" cries the girl, as she hears the bitter- 
 ness with which her father speaks, " because you are 
 unhappy, you think that every one hates you." 
 
 " I know that she hates me." 
 
 " If she is such a creature," pursues Helene, " how 
 can Sir Charles like her ?" 
 
 " I do not say that Charles likes her. He suffers her, 
 bears with her, as people do with relations. Her son, 
 Helene, is his heir-expectant ; nay, we may drop the 
 word expectant, for who can imagine that the dreamy 
 apathetic invalid will waken up at fifty to marry ?" 
 
 " He is not fifty," cries Helene. " He is not old. I 
 wish he would marry and disappoint this son." 
 
 " Never, Helene ! He is too much depressed, too 
 ailing, ever to make such an effort." 
 
 The young girl now casts her arms lovingly about 
 her father, as she often did when his temper was ruffled 
 by memories of the past, and as her head rests on his 
 shoulder he continues almost as one thinking aloud : 
 " She is a horrid woman, her arrogance and her 
 duplicity are insufferable. Were she to visit Avon- 
 more, I should not set foot out of my cottage. I 
 should remain invisible as a tortoise in its shell. 
 Helene," he added, half playfully, " you see now why 
 I am so anxious to have a shell to subside into." 
 
 Letter of Charles Daubigny's in reply to Helene's 
 first attempt, enclosed in a letter of instruction to 
 Graham : — 
 
 " My deaeest Child, — Although I am much grati- 
 fied by your attention in writing to me so soon after 
 your arrival, and thankful, most thankful for the
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 61 
 
 prayers you have offered up on my behalf, yet forgive 
 me if I complain. 
 
 " Dearest Helene, cease to intermingle French words 
 and French sentences with your own language. In 
 writing to me a thousand mistakes would signify 
 nothing. 
 
 " I love you so well. I am jealous of the past. I 
 would have you blot from your memory your foreign 
 education — the foreign habits of your childhood. 
 
 " Well, now, I have written that which was in my 
 mind to write, that which in the wakeful hours of last 
 night I determined to write. I read it over, and it 
 weighs painfully upon me. 
 
 " How ungracious am I to complain ; how possible 
 that in consequence of what I have written my little 
 dove may fly off, may take offence ; but when I tell 
 her that she is for ever present to my memory, when I 
 tell her that at my awaking, whether it be at midnight 
 or at morning, my soul soars ever upwards, beseeching 
 Heaven's best blessings may light upon her, she will 
 pardon her faithful and loving kinsman, 
 
 " Lewis C. Daubigny." 
 
 " P.S. — Against the cottage is ready I promise to my 
 little dove a bed, or rather a bedstead, not hung with 
 curtains of heavy cra?noisi, but with curtains flowered 
 outside, lined with silk, couleur cle rose, also some 
 pictures and an escritoire. 
 
 " Let me hear how you get on with Mrs. Bird. She 
 is a good and faithful creature. Be kind to her." 
 
 Helene's answer to Sir Charles : — 
 
 " Tu as demande que la petite colombe se g^rnir
 
 62 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 toujours a 1' Anglais. Helas ! Je ne saurais faire 
 l'impossible. Ainsi cher Saint Louis ce lettre ci, n'est 
 qu'n lettre d'adieu. 
 
 " Mais que je suis ignorante, and know not how to 
 spell English, la faute c'est seulement la mienne. Tu 
 ne blamera pas mon papa. Souvent — quand je fus 
 enfant ; quand je fus petite fille, II se mit, a m'en- 
 seigner. Mais I would cry ' II ne me plaire pas de 
 faire cela.' ' Je ne veux pas ' et puis je me s'enfuir, 
 je me se cache. Papa a perdu la patience. He said 
 he would not try. 
 
 " Ah ! since I have been plus agee il y a ete trop de 
 chagrin pour lui faire l'efforte, son cceur a ete blesse, 
 dechire. Nous nous n'avons que des feuilles mortes, 
 des epines. II me souvent dit que pour lui la rose 
 s'est fletrie, s'est tombde. 
 
 " Ainsi je ne sais a peu pres de rien. Ni la langage 
 de ce pays-ci, ni la langage de ces pays la ou nous 
 avons lontemps sojournee. 
 
 Mais il y a encore autre langage — langage du cceur 
 des pensees. Ah ! heuresement voila il n'y a ni des 
 lettres ni des mots, ni des regies. Les pensees sont 
 libre. Ceci c'est mon propre langage. Et je n'oublerai 
 jamais faire les prieres pour St. Louis, quand meme je 
 ne lui point ecrire." 
 
 Answer of Sir Charles to the girl's second letter : — 
 
 "My dearest Child, — Your letter received this 
 morning I hasten to answer. It disturbs me extremely; 
 it shows how unreasonable I have been. But, Helene, 
 it is my unfortunate nature ever to be making mis- 
 takes. It seems I was born to be a foe to my own
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 6 
 
 j 
 
 peace. Yet when you could talk to me so easily, 
 so rapidly in our own language, how was I to imagine 
 that you were unable to spell and to write it ? My 
 child, let us go back a step. Forget that I ever inter- 
 dicted the French. I shall only be too happy to have 
 my little dove cooing to me again in its own natural 
 way. 
 
 " Do not forget me ; do not omit the morning 
 prayer. Helene, I picture to myself (oh, let not hope 
 deceive me !), I picture to myself you, at your awaking, 
 kneeling by the great bed of cramoisi. Henceforth, my 
 child, because you are its inhabitant, henceforth the 
 room hung with cramoisi will be precious to your 
 faithful kinsman, Charles L. Daubigny." 
 
 My reader, if I ever have one, will already have 
 perceived how impassioned is becoming the attachment 
 of Sir Charles to the girl. He who for years had, as it 
 were, been wandering in a barren arid desert, had 
 suddenly lighted on a fountain with bright verdure 
 round it ; or shall we rather say that he who had long 
 gazed but on a sad, a gloomy sky, had suddenly beheld 
 a rainbow, " the bow 'mid the cloud," beautiful in itself, 
 and giving promise for the future ? 
 
 Sir Charles, it is true, had near relations. He had 
 indeed very early lost his nearest relative, an only 
 brother, but that brother, as we have heard Graham 
 relate to Helene, had left a widow and children. 
 
 There was nothing, however, attractive or interesting 
 now to Charles Daubigny in any one member of this 
 family. His sister-in-law, arrogant, managing, and
 
 64 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 rapacious, had always domineered over our gentle 
 and sensitive master. The great business of her 
 life had seemed to be to make him subservient to 
 herself. 
 
 His nieces were like two little puppets in the hands 
 of their mother, while his nephew, who as a boy had 
 been very clear to him, of late — as he had advanced 
 towards manhood — had given so many proofs of utter 
 worthlessness, that Sir Charles endeavoured to keep 
 him out of his mind as much as possible. But never 
 for any length of time was our poor baronet permitted 
 to forget his relationship. The young fellow's extrava- 
 gance was endless, we had almost said boundless, and 
 the uncle's charity and mercy and pity alone had saved 
 him again and again from open shame. 
 
 The widowed mother, Mrs. Cyril Daubigny, though 
 more restrained by prudence, was by nature scarce 
 better than her son. Nay, perhaps the mother had 
 even more of craft, had a worse heart than the heir- 
 expectant. 
 
 Feeling perfectly secure, feeling perfectly certain that 
 Sir Charles would never marry, the lady affected but 
 little humility. Not contented with the thousand a 
 year her brother-in-law generously allowed her, she 
 was ready at any time to lay before him a lengthy 
 account sent in by her dressmaker, or, in more elevated 
 language, by her modiste, her court milliner. Occa- 
 sionally, too, she would rush in with a note from her 
 wine merchant, the usually patient man demanding 
 instant payment. 
 
 The fact was that Mrs. Cyril lived amongst people of
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 65 
 
 fashion and fortune, and thus required a style of living 
 her moderate allowance could by no means support. 
 
 A carriage of her own Mrs. Cyril could not afford, 
 and she deemed this inconvenience as perfectly im- 
 material. 
 
 Sir Charles had several carriages, and two pairs of 
 good and useful carriage horses. Incessantly she bor- 
 rowed, incessantly she made use of his vehicles and his 
 animals, ordering her brother-in-law's coachman with 
 peremptory authority. But not only the stables and 
 the coach-house did she invade; his kitchen must be her 
 kitchen whenever it suited her to give an entertain- 
 ment. From that must be forthcoming her excellent 
 and rechercht dinner. Mrs. Cyril had contrived to fix 
 her own place of residence within a few doors of her 
 brother-in-law's London house. What a convenience ! 
 In the dusk of eve how was our unconscious master's 
 furniture made to migrate ; if an extra bath for a visitor 
 were required, if more chairs, another sofa for an even- 
 ing party, if ornaments, if flowers to decorate, how sped 
 they over the trifling intervening space, and once in 
 Mrs. Cyril's keeping, were these goods and chattels 
 always faithfully returned ? . 
 
 Sir Charles had grown so indifferent, moreover, 
 Heaven had given him so gentle a nature — a nature so 
 averse to arguments, to disputes, that rather than say 
 a word he would .submit. Perhaps he was not always 
 so ignorant of these petty thefts as he chose to appear. 
 Eliza, his cook and housekeeper, was niece to old 
 Mrs. Bird, and on account of Eliza's connection with 
 the faithful nurse of his early years, he was wont to 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 66 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 be more familiar with her than he otherwise would 
 have been. 
 
 It was nearly the end of September before the work- 
 people were fairly doing their utmost to put the cottage 
 in order. Does my reader know what village work- 
 people are, especially when the village wherein they 
 dream and vegetate happens to be more than a 
 hundred miles distant from London ? 
 
 Our poor steward's heart almost fainted within him 
 at delay after delay, created now by lack of material 
 precisely to match that which so long ago had been 
 used, now by lack of tools to execute, but more often 
 by want of brains. 
 
 Perforce he must use his own brains, and strange 
 enough was all manner of work to them. His hands 
 he never did use, he never had used, save to handle oar, 
 or rein, or rod, or gun. 
 
 December came, and dare he in the midst of snow, 
 of flood, of damp, take his little Helene to the half-new 
 cottage ? For indeed so much had to be done when 
 the workmen came to overhaul, that a great deal of 
 mortar, of cement, of putty was yet reeking with its 
 noisome moisture. Moreover, the whole cottage smelt 
 of paint. Wisely Graham listened to the vivid remon- 
 strances made by Sir Charles. Yes, he gave his word 
 to the girl's loving patron that Helene should be suf- 
 fered to remain at the great house until early spring. 
 
 And what an advantage such delay proved to Graham 
 himself ! Now that the actual labour was over, he could 
 quietly superintend the pleasanter part of arrangement 
 within doors and without.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 67 
 
 Mrs. Bird had had secret and special orders from her 
 master to inform him of whatever was required at the 
 cottage — of the curtains needed, the carpets, the beds, the 
 bedsteads ; and Sir Charles, with a touch of feminine 
 tenderness that was a part of his peculiar nature, had 
 gone to his own upholsterer's and selected such articles 
 as he deemed best suited to the elegant, though rural 
 and small abode. 
 
 By the -end of March the steward's cottage was pro- 
 nounced ready in every respect, and oh ! how pretty it 
 was. If a heart could have rejoiced in a cottage home, 
 here truly was one to rejoice in. But Graham's heart, 
 as he believed, was broken past repair ; while Helene 
 had taken such a fancy to la maison TAwnmore, she 
 fain had stayed there for ever. 
 
 She loved to wander through the vast and echoing 
 suites of apartments now but partially furnished. 
 
 With what interest she gazed on the portraits of 
 court ladies and fine gentlemen which sporting Tom, 
 as though by accident, had left reposing on the walls ! 
 
 She loved the old oval mirrors with fantastic gilded 
 festoons around them, articles this famous Nimrod of 
 the past had deemed too brittle for transmission. 
 
 Here and there the girl found a seat, a quaint old 
 gilded sofa, a few time-worn chairs remained ; there was 
 left, too, a harpsichord. 
 
 As may be imagined, the sporting baronet had no 
 taste for books. Hence the library at the great house 
 remained undespoiled, it was rich in old romances, it 
 was richer still in wicked, witty comedies — comedies 
 full of love and intrigue. To this silent and deserted
 
 68 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 room our little Gipsy often stole to bear from it a volume, 
 which if her George had seen he had forbidden her to 
 read. 
 
 Ah ! how rapidly now progressed her English; under 
 such masters as Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh. 
 English became easy, easier every week, and love and 
 intrigue to the mind of the too precocious child, the 
 child of earth, became familiar. 
 
 Yet still a child, a very child, Helene found other 
 pastimes at Avonmore. Mrs. Bird had been instructed 
 by Sir Charles to supply his jproUgde with whatever 
 amusement the long- deserted house afforded. 
 
 And Mrs. Bird remembered that in one of its 
 chambers were chests of drawers in which lay hidden 
 dresses, rich dresses, of antique material and shape. 
 
 In this chamber, amid these glittering shrouds of the 
 dead, Helene often, like a very butterfly, disported 
 herself. 
 
 The girl had indeed found a kind of fairyland in 
 the Daubignys' deserted home, and as we shall see by 
 her letter written to its owner the night before she left 
 it, she was loath to leave. 
 
 Letter written by Helene to Sir Charles the night 
 before she left Avonmore : — 
 
 " Ce nuit ci est la derniere de notre sejour a la 
 maison d'Avonmore. Demain jusqu'a dix heures du 
 matin nous partons pour la petite chaumiere. Et 
 pense tu que je m'en irai sans regret ? Helas ! il n'est 
 pas possible, et toutes les fois que J'y refleche, a chaque 
 instant que l'idee m'est renouvele ; il y a au cceur 
 une douleur positif.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 69 
 
 " I shall try to like ray new home ; but I do not 
 like the house-keeping, which papa tells me I must 
 learn. I never shall, I told him so. He has been 
 cross about it. I will not think, at least to-night, d un 
 telle horreur. I will rather think of the dear little 
 chambre au lit et de tout ce que tu m'a donne pour 
 faire l'interessante. 
 
 " Des tableaux, des rideaux de lit fleurre, de l'escri- 
 toire, du miroir de toilette. I shall love it all very 
 very much, yet a mon reveil I shall still seem to see 
 la chambre ou je me fus couchee a la maison d' Avon- 
 more, les rideaux de cramoisi, les fenetres de si grand 
 hauteur, le plafond brillant des festons doree. Yoila 
 les memoires fort cheri. Oh ! J'ai trouve beaucoup 
 me plaire et m'amuser a la grande maison, et toutes 
 les jours je m'y promenerai pour voyer Madame Bird. 
 
 " I shall wander through les apartemens vaste et 
 morne Je chanterai, Je toucherai le vieux clavecin, et 
 l'echo, l'echo seulement repliquerai a la gemissant de 
 la pauvre petite tourterelle. 
 
 " Dites, moi cher St. Louis, dites moi pourquoi, pour 
 quel raison tu s'absenter jamais, toujours d'une si belle 
 residence ? Viens tu avec l'ete prochaine — viens tu 
 avec les fleurs pour faire le bonheur de ta petite amie, 
 
 " Helexe."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 That which natural curiosity could not bring about, 
 that which a sense of duty, of responsibility, had failed 
 to effect, seemed very likely to be accomplished by the 
 entreaty of a mere child. The apathy that yielded 
 not before the mirthful ridicule of his nephew, that 
 could not be penetrated by the sarcasms, the remarks 
 of others more potential, a single sentence of Helene's 
 seemed very like to dissipate. 
 
 "Dites moi, cher Saint Louis, dites moi pourquoi 
 tu s'absentirai jamais d'une si belle residence ?" Yes, 
 after receiving this letter from the girl, Charles Dau- 
 bigny began to entertain a notion of, began to look 
 forward to, becran to cherish an idea of a visit to 
 Avonmore. 
 
 Yet he could not but feel that Graham's presence 
 must inevitably cast a dark shadow, must be as a 
 lowering cloud above him. Yet if there were not this 
 cloud in his sky there would be no rainbow in it, and 
 for the girl's sake he determined to endeavour to 
 reduce, to coerce, to annihilate his long-cherished 
 sensibility. 
 
 Henceforth there was a desire, an inclination, a 
 feeling his way, — hints in his letters that in the coming
 
 Oar Little Gipsy. 71 
 
 autumn it was just possible he might make a visit to, 
 make a short stay at Avonmore. 
 
 Yes, Sir Charles did think of it ; he even made a 
 step further in advance, he sent some furniture down 
 for Mrs. Bird to arrange against his coming. Yet, 
 after all, the master never came. 
 
 Perhaps to the hints he had let fall in his letters to 
 Helene of his intended visit, he thought there should 
 have been a kindly, a warm response on Graham's part, 
 in Graham's own handwriting, whereas Graham scarcely 
 touched upon the subject. Perhaps he had wanted, 
 and had waited vainly, for an excuse, an occasion. 
 
 We have only to tell that the year ended and the 
 master never came. 
 
 And the new year dawned, and for Helene and for 
 Graham was slowly, monotonously stealing on, the 
 master's visit, still unmade, still deferred, becoming, as 
 it would seem, a thing less and less likely to be 
 accomplished. 
 
 'Twas April — April, with its smiles, its tears, its 
 gleams of sunshine, its sudden gusts of wind. 'Twas 
 April, with its snowy buds of purity, its rosy buds of 
 promise, its soft unfolding leaves. The cuckoo called, 
 the chaffinch gave his bursts of short and thrilling 
 song. The garden warbler had arrived, one swallow 
 had returned, the bat was seen to flit at eve. 
 
 Thus was it when our Helene claimed to be fifteen. 
 
 Yes, 'twas in this changeful month that Helene 
 Yane, in exile, in seclusion, had given birth to this her 
 only child, offspring of sin and passion, — to this child, 
 whose very existence had been ignored by the stern,
 
 72 Otw Little Gipsy. 
 
 the wise, and the good. The brand of illegitimacy was 
 upon the girl, and the notoriety of the case, of the trial 
 that followed, the eloquence of the learned counsel for 
 and against, the ruinous sum adjudged to be paid by 
 the sinner, had set a fiercer mark than usual, had 
 burnt the brand of shame more deeply in. 
 
 And shall we marvel if this child of earth gives early 
 token of the burning source from whence she sprung ? 
 Shall we marvel if we find our Helene, like the Arab or 
 the Indian maiden, woman in heart, in soul, in form, 
 when other English girls are deemed to be but children ? 
 This April Helene was no more a child, wholly, posi- 
 tively ; yet changeful as the month that brought her 
 birthday, she at times would cast away precocity and 
 wisdom. 
 
 Ah, must we tell it ? Yes, we must. The girl had 
 lately made sad secret strides in knowledge. When her 
 father went his daily rounds of duty, how would she 
 steal to Avonmore, returning to the cottage laden with 
 the English play, the French romance, he certainly had 
 bade her not to read ! 
 
 Her heart, her mind, were thus awaked, thus pre- 
 pared for mischief. She had been feeding on romance 
 and love until her dreams by night repeated that that 
 she had read by day. Ofttimes in airy vision of the 
 night she was herself the heroine. 
 
 Such was the state of things in April, and May, 
 that fairer, warmer month, arrived, and ere it had 
 expired, ere June had come, a change was wrought in 
 Helene's life that presently should launch her on a 
 sea of danger. We will not give a long wordy history
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 73 
 
 of the past to show how this change could come 
 about. Better we give Graham's letter written to Sir 
 Charles. 
 
 " You found me, Charles, at Bruges a mere stranded 
 wreck; storm and tempest had well-nigh done their 
 worst. 
 
 " But the crazy vessel, lifted from its peril, no longer 
 lashed by the fury of the waves, might yet endure. 
 
 "How grateful has my soul been for the haven 
 provided by your courtesy, your generosity ! How have 
 I trusted never to be tempted from it ! Such a ruined 
 hulk is far too crazy for the ocean of life. 
 
 " But there comes a call, an order, sudden, improbable, 
 unlooked for. 
 
 " The old shattered craft, forsooth, is ordered out for 
 service; may no longer ride at anchor in the rest 
 and security of Avonmore. 
 
 "A letter just received bids me to the world again, 
 and fills my soul with indescribable agitation. 
 
 " You remember the old aunt whose proUgi and pet 
 I once was. You remember to have heard, perhaps, 
 that at a particular period of my life, this pattern lady 
 chose to withdraw her affections from me, chose to 
 disavow her previous good intentions towards me. 
 
 " Many, many years have passed since she has deigned, 
 by word or deed, to acknowledge my existence. Imagine 
 my surprise, then, when two days since the old familiar 
 characters greeted my sight. 
 
 " She writes, telling me that she has reason to believe 
 that her days are numbered ; that, as a last resource, as 
 a last hope of prolonging life, she is advised to visit
 
 74 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 the south of France. She asks whether I choose to 
 accompany her thither ; whether, late as it is, even 
 at the eleventh hour, there may not exist betwixt us 
 cordiality, affection? She would fain restore me to 
 the position I once occupied. 
 
 " You will see nothing as yet in this letter to account 
 for the painful impression it has made on my mind. 
 I have yet to explain that appended to the letter is a 
 singularly offensive postscript, wherein I may say my 
 child's very existence is ignored. If I would receive 
 this woman's blessing, if I desire a restoration of the 
 love and confidence once existing betwixt us, if I 
 care to succeed her at Wodebourne Grange, she beseeches 
 that I will come to her alone, unaccompanied by that 
 token so bitterly to recall the past. 'Let me live/ 
 says she, ' my few last days, oblivious as possible of a 
 circumstance, a scandal, which even yet at times 
 appears to me incredible.' I had scarce read this 
 woman's letter, when, obeying a natural impulse, I sat 
 down to answer it, declining (on the terms she proposed) 
 attending her in her journey. 
 
 " I was reading my own letter over, and as I did so 
 I confess that my hand trembled with rage, my face I 
 dare say gave evidence, too, of my indignation. Thus 
 was I when Helene came into my presence, and gazed 
 on me with astonishment. 
 
 " ' Papa, papa,' cried she, f what is it ? Oh, you 
 have been writing a letter. I know you have written 
 something in a passion, something that to-morrow you 
 will regret. Oh, dearest, dearest/ she continued, clasp- 
 ing her fond arms about me, ' only wait. If you could
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 75 
 
 but see your own fierce eyes, your lips Oh, it shall 
 
 not go !' she cried, seizing the letter. 
 
 " ' It shall/ I answered, but as I spoke my heart 
 commenced that fearful fluttering I now so often suffer 
 from ; for the moment I was done. ' It is thai, 3 she said, 
 motioning with one hand towards the letter, while with 
 the other she held the hartshorn to me. ' Oh, be 
 persuaded, only consider,' and her cheek rested on 
 mine, and she rained kisses on me. 
 
 " ■ When you are so angry,' she presently continued, 
 ' really, really you hardly know. Oh that you would 
 just speak to some one !' 
 
 " ' Who is there,' I cried, ' to speak to ? Child, I have 
 not a friend on earth.' 
 
 " ■ Not one,' she said, ' not one. Oh, though he comes 
 not, St. Louis is your friend.' 
 
 " ' Thine, child,' I answered. 
 
 " ' Then, if he so loves me, he will bid you have reason. 
 Do not write what he would say w*as wrong.' 
 
 " ' Poor thing, poor clear, how little knew she that it 
 was her existence, her ignored existence, that had so 
 wounded my soul.' 
 
 " ' Will you ask him, papa — papa, for I am sure it 
 must be something serious puts you thus out ?' 
 
 " I smiled through my rage. I knew that the woman's 
 antipathy to the girl would make her odious to your- 
 self as to me. 
 
 " ' I will,' I said. ' Yes, I will write to Charles 
 Daubigny.' 
 
 " I meant to write to you, but could not, yesterday. 
 I had intense headache. I ask you now what answer
 
 J 6 Otir Little Gipsy. 
 
 must I return. Must I submit ? Must I go sneaking 
 like a whipped hound ? My rebel nature still holds 
 out ; yet have I been so luckless, or so unwise through 
 life, I will, whatever it costs me, abide by your decision. 
 I know but too well that to refuse this woman's dying 
 request is to cast away my last chance. 
 
 " Take time to consider. Eemember that thouoh I 
 
 o 
 
 am but your steward now, in receipt of wages for my 
 poor services, yet remember I am safe from molesta- 
 tion. The girl is tranquil — secure from evil. I go, 
 and God only knows what may turn up. — Waiting your 
 advice, believe me, ever faithfully yours, 
 
 " G. K. Leslie Graham." 
 
 Oh, what was this ! Dare we say of a man approach- 
 ing fifty, of a man with a somewhat wrinkled face, 
 dare we say that his heart danced with joy, that sun- 
 light shed its golden glory o'er his soul, that the 
 clouds rolled away, and left the rainbow vivid to his 
 sight ? 
 
 "Oh God!" cried Charles Daubigny in his infatuation. 
 " Oh God ! Thou showest me mercy and light." Yes, 
 how light seemed to dawn, how w T as his way defined ! 
 how had that occasion, that opportunity he had so 
 longed for, arrived ! He would take up his abode at 
 Avonmore during Graham's absence. How easy it all 
 was now T ! He would be the girl's daily companion. 
 How happy he was in possessing Oiseau, as Helene 
 playfully termed his faithful nurse ! 
 
 Our poor baronet's hand actually trembled from the 
 various emotions of his mind, as rapidly, eagerly, almost
 
 Our Little Gipsy. yy 
 
 immediately he answered Graham's letter, bidding him 
 fly to his aunt, and without delay. 
 
 But how pale was his cheek after passing through 
 such sudden agitation ; how absent, how distracted was 
 his manner, when, about four o'clock in the afternoon, 
 his sister-in-law entered the house, and found him still 
 dreaming in the library. 
 
 Mrs. Cyril Daubigny, observing that her brother-in- 
 law had less colour than usual, took the opportunity of 
 endeavouring to impress on her victim the hopeless- 
 ness of his condition, 
 
 " Have you seen your doctor lately, Charles ? Eeally 
 you look like a walking ghost." Without waiting for 
 an answer, the amiable lady continued, " If you have 
 not seen him, if you have not consulted him, I 'm sure 
 you ought to do so immediately ; he might perhaps 
 suggest some remedy. You know the value of your 
 life to us all, — the anxiety we naturally feel." 
 
 " I am infinitely obliged to you, Augusta, indeed, for 
 your kind feelings," replied Charles Daubigny, scarcely 
 able to repress a smile ; " but I hope at present your 
 affection somewhat exaggerates the evil." 
 
 " Oh, that is always your unfortunate way ; pro- 
 crastination, apathy, indifference about everything. Yes, 
 you will suffer the little remaining strength you have to 
 waste, and seek a remedy when it may be just too late." 
 
 " Well, Augusta, happily I am in a position to offer 
 you some consolation. I am about to try a remedy, 
 one, with my usual indifference as you term it, I have 
 been only dreaming over for months past." 
 
 Mrs. Cyril Daubigny gazed on her brother-in-law,
 
 78 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 first with a sarcastic sneer, which, however, was suc- 
 ceeded presently by an expression of genuine surprise. 
 
 " Pray let me hear," she cried. " I do, indeed, 
 expect something wonderful. A cup of arrow-root at 
 eleven, to be set before you a basin of beef-tea, 
 each of which, by the way, might stand before you 
 untasted for ever if some person — " 
 
 " No, indeed," cried Charles Daubigny, interrupting 
 the lady, " not so trifling a remedy. I had intended 
 mentioning it, my intention of trying it I mean. Per- 
 haps you may recollect that some months ago, when I 
 really did feel ill, my medical man advised change of 
 air, but more particularly change of thought and scene. 
 I am about, for a time, to try a complete change. It 
 is my intention, my present intention, to make some 
 stay at Avonmore, to bestow some care on that poor, 
 neglected place." 
 
 " Dear me," exclaimed Augusta, " this is a surprise ! 
 I thought, Charles, by your own account, you had 
 placed a complete barrier there. Have you then dis- 
 missed our disreputable cousin; has he been swind- 
 ling, absconding with your rents?" 
 
 " Good God, Auo-usta," cried Sir Charles, his features 
 lighting up with indignation, " how can you imagine, 
 and if you do imagine, how can you give utterance to 
 such a slander ? Graham was ever honest, scrupulously 
 correct about money." 
 
 " Oh, pardon me, my dear brother, but see what 
 changes do come about. If you who abhorred and 
 abjured your cousin, can patronise and trust that 
 cousin, fallen from his right place in the world, tempted
 
 Out' Little Gipsy. 79 
 
 by beggary, may be guilty of the basest of acts. Cir- 
 cumstances have an immense influence on our morality. 
 Tell me at least, have you dismissed the man ?" 
 
 " I have not dismissed Graham, but his presence is 
 required by a dying relative, and during his absence 
 from Avonmore I shall make it my place of residence." 
 
 "And who may this dying relative be ?" asked Mrs. 
 Cyril. 
 
 "I do not feel authorised, I do not think it right 
 exactly to go into particulars." 
 
 " Well, really now, and so you grow confidential, 
 and you correspond privately with Graham. Have a 
 care, Charles ; surely you are bewitched." 
 
 " I am ready to grant that there may appear great 
 incongruity in my conduct to you who cannot compre- 
 hend," answered Charles Daubigny, evidently distressed 
 by the keen gaze fixed upon him ; then added, as if de- 
 termined to put an end to his sister-in-law's remarks 
 and inquiries, " Augusta, it is a subject too painful 
 to me, I must indeed beg, if you value my affection, 
 that you will cease to inflict — " He paused ; he might 
 have added, a further torture, but he expected a sar- 
 castic reply. 
 
 Audacious as was this high-born lady, she was sel- 
 dom blind to her own interest, and now she could see 
 by her brother-in-law's manner that she might venture 
 too far. Ill indeed could she afford to be on bad terms 
 with him. Affecting a playfulness that she by no means 
 felt, with feminine adroitness she cried out, " Oh, for 
 the future, Charles, you may thoroughly depend upon 
 me. I will religiously respect this little peculiarity; and,
 
 8o Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 indeed, when I entered the house, the furthest thing 
 from my thoughts was our ruined blase" cousin, whose 
 relationship, whose consanguinity, by the way, I never 
 choose to confess to my children. Here on this last 
 point I am not treading on forbidden ground ; am I, 
 eh?" 
 
 "You are only doing precisely that that Graham 
 would most desire you should do. He has the greatest 
 possible dislike to be identified with his former self." 
 
 " How fortunate that I have been able, or rather I 
 should say, that I have been careful, to oblige your 
 steward ! " remarked the lady, laughing ; and as she 
 smilingly stood before the poor baronet, carefully 
 rouged and got up, even at this late period of her life 
 Augusta looked a handsome woman. 
 
 " There," continued she, holding out her delicately 
 formed hand, which glittered with the rings Sir Charles 
 perforce at various times had paid for, " There, Charles, 
 aren't we friends now ? And now, as your darling Pepys 
 would say, ' So to business,' my business, that that 
 brought me hither, nothing funereal. May I ask a 
 little favour ?" 
 
 Sir Charles was not so very young, he thought it 
 wiser to simulate. With an air of playful gallantry he 
 took the hand she held out, and asked what she 
 required. 
 
 "I came merely to inquire about the carriage to- 
 night. Your coachman tells me that one of the horses is 
 too ill to be used. One pair is therefore defunct ; what 
 I want to know is this, Do you use the other pair ? 
 Are you going out anywhere this evening ? "
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 81 
 
 " Nowhere ; I have no engagement." 
 
 " Then I may tell Wells to call for me ? You do not 
 mind ?" added Augusta. " You do not think I am en- 
 croaching?" This was said with a view of obliterating 
 her previous remarks. 
 
 "You are quite welcome to the carriage. When do 
 I object to any reasonable service?" 
 
 Augusta feared there was a touch of acrimony, of 
 suppressed feeling in her brother-in-law's tone and 
 manner. She wished to be easy with him ere she left, 
 and she had some curiosity about his visit to Avon- 
 more. She turned towards him with one of her most 
 winning looks, asking, " Will you take my two girls to 
 Avonmore ? I 'in sure they 'd be delighted to go. Let 
 me persuade you, Charles." 
 
 " By no means," retorted he. " The care I should 
 feel, the impossibility of finding the slightest amuse- 
 ment for my nieces, would so worry me that I should 
 come away anything but improved ; no, I shall go 
 alone. Mrs. Bird, you know, is there ; she will see to 
 the little I require." 
 
 " You are going to play the hermit, the recluse. 
 However, I must be mute," so again holding out the 
 little be-ringed hand, " Good-bye." 
 
 The poor worried man, the master of so many 
 thousands a year, yet so complete a slave, took the 
 proffered hand ; nay, he did more, he saw his sister-in- 
 law out of the hall door. They parted in all outward 
 and visible good feeling. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When Graham had received Charles Daubigny's reply, 
 when he felt that indeed he ought to, he must go, there 
 was a heavy weight added to the burden always 
 oppressing him. 
 
 Since her mother's death Helene had never been 
 parted from him except when he had been in the prison 
 at Bruges, and the idea of their coming separation 
 brought this sad short epoch in his existence too vividly 
 before him. And when presently he should have to 
 discourse with the girl on the necessity of his absence, 
 the same memory, the same painful feeling must needs 
 be awakened in her now tranquil mind. 
 
 But he must speak. " Helene," he said, " you wanted 
 to know something about that letter I received, — why 
 it so disturbed me." 
 
 " I don't care now, parceque le soleil luit les nuauges 
 sont passes." 
 
 "Why do you speak to me in French?" asked 
 Graham ; " the clouds have not passed." 
 
 "What is it?" cried the girl, startled by the tone 
 in which her father spoke. "What is it?" cried she, 
 getting up and circling her arms about his neck, and 
 gazing into his deep ami mournful eyes.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. S3 
 
 " Helene," he answered, "we are to part; I have that 
 to do which calls me away." 
 
 "Oh, papa!" exclaimed the girl, her young cheek 
 losing its bright colour as the most terrible memory of 
 her life returned. 
 
 " It is nothing bad takes me hence, nothing you need 
 dread ; the whim, or rather the command, of an old 
 lady." And Graham tried to smile, to lessen the terror 
 his words had called up. 
 
 " Are you sure, George ? Are you speaking all the 
 truth ?" cried Helene in a voice that trembled. 
 
 " Quite sure that I am speaking all the truth." 
 
 " Then why do you go ? Don't go." 
 
 "Helene, this old lady has it in her power to make 
 my position, your position, more tolerable, that is, if 
 money can bring satisfaction. She tells me that her 
 days will be few on earth ; she entreats me to come. I 
 fear I have been an ungrateful nephew. Once she was 
 very kind. A circumstance, an event in my past life, 
 grieved and offended her. We quarrelled ; the fault was 
 wholly mine. She wishes for a perfect reconciliation. 
 Can I refuse to go ?" 
 
 " You shall go," said the girl, who still leant on 
 Graham's shoulder ; " you shall go. Je ne souhaiterai 
 aucun au contraire. Mais moi, oh ! Je ne puis souffrir 
 ton absence. !Not here ; I must not stay here. I must 
 go and stay with Oiseau." 
 
 " Just what I wished to hear you say. Yes ; I can 
 depend on Mrs. Bird ; I know that she will do every- 
 thing she can to make you comfortable ; and — and it 
 is just possible that Charles Daubigny may, during my 
 absence, pay a short visit to Avonmore."
 
 84 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 "All, non!" murmured the girl with a little air of 
 petulance, her rosy lips showing something of disdain. 
 " J'y pensee autrefois, mais l'idee s'est passee. Je ne 
 m'en soucie plus." 
 
 Graham thought it quite possible that the apparently 
 apathetic master might never arrive, might never fulfil 
 his pronounced intention ; he therefore answered 
 nothing, — made no attempt to soothe the wounded 
 vanity of the little maiden. 
 
 As if he had scarce noticed her allusion to Sir Charles, 
 he returned to the previous subject of discourse — the 
 stay at the great house — the necessity there would be of 
 at once apprising Mrs. Bird of Helene's desire to be under 
 her protection — to be at Avonmore. He was presently 
 taking his way thither, and finding Mrs. Bird, entered at 
 once on the subject. The good old nurse smilingly 
 assured him that she had already commenced airing 
 Miss Helene's bed ; that she had had notice of the 
 young lady's visit hours and hours ago. Sir Charles 
 himself had written. "And he tells me, sir, that he thinks 
 of coming himself too. Oh, sir, what a deal of good it 
 would do me to have him as was once so dear with me 
 again ! And sure it '11 do him good to get away a bit ; 
 he is so thralled and hampered. Mrs. Cyril do so keep 
 him down. My niece, sir, writes she do lead him such a 
 life ; his house and nothing in it, as one may say, is his 
 own. Sometimes Lizzie says she really thinks he'll 
 rebel; she has seen him once or twice quite on the stilts." 
 
 And Graham was gone, and Helene once more occu- 
 pied the great chamber she loved at Avonmore. 
 
 "When she awoke the first morning after her arrival,
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 85 
 
 there was something of confusion in her mind. Was it 
 a dream ? She gazed betwixt the heavy curtains of 
 cramoisi, and saw the sunlight streaming through the 
 three hautcs fenetres. She looked upwards and her 
 eyes rested on the lofty ceiling, rich with flowers and 
 fcstons dords. She loved to be where she was. She 
 loved Avonmore, yet as consciousness, as memory 
 thoroughly returned, we cannot say that the girl ex- 
 perienced a perfect satisfaction. 
 
 The room brought St Louis vividly before her. 
 She thought of all the tenderness he had maifested to- 
 wards her ; but she also thought of his promised visit 
 unfulfilled, and there was a sense of pain, a feeling 
 almost akin to resentment, mingling with her affection 
 and her gratitude. She had no means of penetrating, 
 no power of reading his hidden secret ; she could not 
 tell that the presence of her father must of necessity be 
 painful to him, that it could but add to his usual depres- 
 sion. Neither could she divine that had Graham 
 pressed him to do so, despite the uneasiness he might 
 have experienced, he would have ventured — his promise 
 had been fulfilled. 
 
 Helene was sensitive almost as her patron ; when 
 month after month had passed, and he came not, her 
 letters dwindled into notes ; with time the notes fell 
 to be a mere line or two, and latterly the correspon- 
 dence had wholly ceased. 
 
 The girl did indeed awake that morning as one in a 
 dream. There was a kind of mystery around her which 
 as a child she had not so much noticed, had not cared 
 nor sought to unravel ; but now, advanced in age,
 
 S6 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 precocious as she was, her faculties aroused by her. 
 father's explanation of his sudden departure, she could 
 not but desire to gain some further knowledge ; she 
 wanted light whereby to read her own position. 
 
 At various times she had found Oiseau to be well 
 acquainted with her own father's history ; and we 
 need scarcely add that the whole story of Charles 
 Daubigny's life was graven on his nurse's memory. 
 But, with her customary heedlessness or volatility, 
 Helene had scarcely listened to these tales of " auld 
 lang syne." 
 
 Now, however, after she had breakfasted, her mind 
 full of unrest, she purposely touched the chord and spoke 
 of the past ; and the nurse, whose isolated life, whose 
 compelled silence was very irksome to her, was 
 presently delightedly recounting a hundred trifling 
 circumstances, a few more striking tales, how deeply 
 interesting to her listener. 
 
 Helene presently learned that Sir Charles had been 
 deeply in love with her mother ; that her mother had 
 married, — " Not papa ? " and the good Oiseau must 
 needs hesitate, but her hesitation convinced Helene 
 that here was the mystery, and she succeeded in 
 bringing so much of the truth to light that it fell like 
 a weight on her heart ; it sent a thrill of pain right 
 through her, yet she had not gained the whole or 
 the worst. The burning brand, her parents' illicit 
 connection, had set upon her that yet was hidden. 
 But her mother had left her proper home, her good 
 old husband. This was enough — too much. It told 
 her why she was never recognised or noticed by her 

 
 Our Little Gipsy. 87 
 
 father's or her mother's relations ; why her father 
 was ever so deeply sad. 
 
 Helene had heard so much, that she was glad to 
 run away and shut herself up in the great hed- chamber. 
 How beautiful she looked as she paced restlessly to and 
 fro beneath the festons dorts ! She recapitulated, she 
 went over all that Oiseau had, willingly or unwillingly, 
 supplied. Her young cheek burnt now with shame, 
 now with pride, her father's pride, and at length 
 casting herself on the bed, shadowed by its curtains of 
 cramoisi, she w T ept there her first flood of bitter, of 
 impassioned tears. At length the thunder- shower was 
 over ; she sat up on the bed, her rich golden-tinted 
 hair all wild and tear-bedewed ; and the memory of 
 St. Louis, the memory of his injunction to pray always, 
 ever, for hope, for aid, came like a healing balm. 
 Tears, softer, gentler, stole dow T n her glowing cheeks, 
 and, kneeling by the bedside, she implored God to 
 give her patience, to show her that love denied to her 
 by the world ; she asked for a beam, a ray of that 
 huniility that had characterised the Son of God, the 
 Son of Mary. She asked that the lowliest of God's 
 angels might be suffered to watch over her. " I am so 
 little worthy," cried the girl, " that I may scarce dare 
 look upwards, but Thou dost not despise the simple."
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 Of so volatile a nature was Helene, so capricious or 
 so whimsical, that before two days had passed (for the 
 present) she had banished from her mind, she had laid 
 aside, the painful knowledge she had gained from Mrs. 
 Bird. We watch her movements, and we see her 
 stealing into the library at Avonmore. By Graham's 
 absence, rendered fearless of rebuke or intrusion, she 
 may now at her leisure devour any quantity of per- 
 nicious literature, and now bends the young and 
 beautiful countenance over a poem teeming with 
 passion ; now is it moved almost to laughter over a 
 play full of wit, of wickedness, and intrigue. 
 
 But the girl cannot read all day, and ever and anon 
 she starts up, and without hat or gloves, with no 
 parasol to shade her from the sun, she flits through 
 the gardens, or roams in the park of Avonmore. 
 
 Helene's beauty was real beauty, and that that had 
 diminished another's charms but heightened hers. The 
 sunburn but gave a richer tint to her complexion. The 
 wind, tossing her long silky brown hair, but added to 
 her fascination. She would come in laden with flowers, 
 and leaves, and grasses ; she would take to arranging
 
 Ottr Little Gipsy. 89 
 
 these, which she had gathered alike from parterre, or 
 sunny glade, or tangled brake, with a taste native to 
 her. She would set aside a spray of ivy, a tendril, a 
 few leaves of the vine or the woodbine, wherewith to 
 bind her own young brow. And — must we say it? Yes, 
 faithfully to delineate, we must, for vanity was a part 
 of Helene's nature. When the ivy twined amidst her 
 golden-tinted hair, or the vine or the woodbine circled 
 around her sunny brow, she would gaze at her own 
 reflection in the glass, more than satisfied by the 
 picture. She would sigh over her own isolation, and 
 regret that no other eyes were near to gaze upon her 
 rich and sun -ripe beauty. 
 
 One morning, soon after our Helene had become 
 again a resident at the great house, she awoke to find 
 it pouring with rain. Xever fond of needle-work, 
 tired of reading for ever, she must needs take to per- 
 ambulating the vast and echoing suites of apartments. 
 The day proved continuously wet, and in the after- 
 noon Oiseau, anxious to relieve its monotony, inquires 
 of the girl whether she will have the key of the old 
 chest of drawers, wherein were kept those relics of the 
 past which formerly had so amused her. 
 
 Helene assents, takes the offered key, runs off, and 
 — still a child, capricious as a very child — ere long 
 resumes her former favourite pastime. Since Helene 
 had last played with these tokens, these shrouds of the 
 dead, Oiseau had put them into better order. The girl 
 opens a drawer ; in it she finds a collection of fans and 
 the toilet of a bride, — the white satin petticoat, the 
 white dress with its ample train, the rich lace veil.
 
 90 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 She gazes, she sighs. These things tell of a luxury 
 destiny has denied to her, a luxury she covets. 
 
 She opens another, a lower drawer, wherein are 
 garments of many colours, and better suited to her 
 childish purpose ; from this she abstracts a dress of 
 straw-coloured silk, brocaded with rosebuds, with rose- 
 buds still blushing pink and red. She also takes a 
 quilted satin petticoat ; this dress she had played with 
 long before, and in it were the ruffles she had then 
 tacked in ; but to be perfect, she must have powder. 
 Ah ! she remembers the old powder-box, a powder-box 
 of material obsolete ; a pasteboard-box, covered with 
 satin and gold lace. It is found, puff in it and 
 powder too. Ah, what a token of the dead ! But the 
 girl stays not to moralise, she is only bent on arraying 
 herself; she stands before a long glass let into the wall, 
 and having brought with her a brush and comb and 
 some ribbon, she brushes her floating curls off her sunny 
 brow, forms them into a toupee, leaving only two 
 waving locks to fall into her shoulders. Then the 
 toupee is sprinkled with powder. Ah ! now is our little 
 Gipsy divesting herself in readiness. Off goes her own 
 dress. She stands before the long glass now with but 
 a short white skirt and bare arms ; next, the quilted 
 petticoat is assumed, then the dress semte of rosebuds 
 is put over that, the long, stiff, whalebone stomacher 
 is laced, and Helene beholds in the glass a very elegant 
 lady of the olden time. 
 
 That dress semde of rosebuds that formerly had 
 been too large at the bosom, now fits as though it were 
 made but yesterday for its present occupant; that
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 91 
 
 petticoat that used to trail 011 the ground, now is just 
 the thing. 
 
 The girl, with a fan in her hand, glides before the 
 long mirror. How graceful are her movements ! She 
 is slowly and softly executing a courtly curtsy, when a 
 distant sound of a footstep, an approaching footstep, 
 causes her to suspend her childish evolutions. She 
 perceives the figure of a man at the far end of the long 
 room ; another instant, and this man is beside her. In 
 confusion, in annoyance at being thus surprised, while 
 blushes suffuse her cheeks, the girl exclaims — 
 " How came you here ? This is too bad." 
 tt Did you not expect me ? " asks Charles Daubigny. 
 " Expect you ! Xo," cries she, still blushing, still 
 confused. " How could I ever expect you ? " 
 
 " Did not your father mention to you that I intended." 
 
 "Oh, yes!'"' cries she, "but I took no heed of it. 
 
 Have you not said before, again and again, I am com- 
 
 - 
 
 Sir Charles, to use a homely phrase, was quite taken 
 aback by the girls piquant, vivid, almost sarcastic tone 
 and manner. 
 
 " You are offended, Helene," he said, " and I grant 
 that to you, who know so little of the past, my delay in 
 coming may have appeared neglectful ; but I cannot 
 well explain." 
 
 - You need not," cries our little Gipsy, bursting into 
 a wild passion of tears. " Since papa went I have made 
 Oiseau tell me hundreds of things — milks chases. Oh, 
 I am not a baby to be deluded any longer." 
 
 u My dear, dear child, it grieves me to see you thus
 
 92 Our Little Gipsy, 
 
 troubled. How could I expect it ; and how strangely 
 at variance is your fanciful attire with your tears ! I 
 cannot bear it. Take off this ridiculous dress." 
 
 " I cannot take it off here before you. I have no- 
 thing under it but one of my old white frocks, which 
 is too short for a dress now." 
 
 "And what can it matter if it is short?" asks Sir 
 Charles. "Is it possible that you have taken to long 
 dresses ?" 
 
 " I should think I have. Did you really expect to 
 find me just what I was ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I was in hopes I should have found you 
 precisely the same." 
 
 " You would have time and me stand still for your 
 indolence and convenience." 
 
 "Not exactly," answered Sir Charles, smiling and 
 gazing admiringly on the little vixen, "but really it 
 seems but yesterday that you stood beside me in utter 
 carelessness of the short frock. The wind blew it 
 about, I remember, and you heeded not then. How 
 has this new light broken in upon you?" 
 
 Helene laughed amid her tears. " And so you stayed 
 away all this time," cries she, and now she wept again, 
 " and thought to come and find me still a little girl with 
 my frocks up to my knees, showing my ankles without 
 a care." 
 
 " I wish that I had found you so. I wish I could 
 have stayed the march of time. Yes, I have a vivid 
 memory of our walk at Bruges. I seem to see you even 
 now, the pretty little feet, the sandals." 
 
 "You will never see my ankles and my sandals
 
 Our Little Gipsy. r 93 
 
 again," cries Helene ; " you chose to put off your 
 visit too long." 
 
 "And has some abominable village dressmaker been 
 employed to convert you into a young lady of pro- 
 priety V asks our master, raising his glass to his eye, 
 for he was somewhat near- sighted. 
 
 o 
 
 " No," answers the girl. " This is how it was 
 managed. Papa was obliged to travel to Bath about 
 some of your business. I begged to go with him, and 
 in Bath we found a very fair modiste." 
 
 " I am thankful," returns Sir Charles, " thankful no 
 village dressmaker has been employed to disfigure you, 
 my child. In my mind, however, you are far too 
 young to dress like a grown-up person." 
 
 " Too young ! but indeed I am not a child now." 
 
 " Why, my dear, you are but just turned fifteen." 
 
 "Well, now," cries Helene, "it is something that 
 you remember thai. I knew you remembered my 
 birthday, because you kindly sent me a present ; but I 
 wonder you should have taken the trouble to remember 
 how mam- years I had — " 
 
 " Child," cries Sir Charles, in a voice that was scarcely 
 steady, " child, your age is too deeply graven on my 
 soul. Helene, Helene, must I tell you how very 
 precious you are to me ?" 
 
 The girl gazed on her companion, and saw such 
 truth, such passion, such tenderness, such struggling 
 emotion in the countenance before her, that a new 
 agitation was created in herself, and in a voice full of 
 impassioned feeling she exclaims, " I know that you 
 loved mamma. I have found it out. It is for her
 
 94 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 sake you love me, and I do believe that even now you 
 cannot bear papa. Tell me, was that why you never 
 came ?" 
 
 " Has your father ever spoken to you, Helene ?" asks 
 Sir Charles, painfully, with effort, " Has he ever 
 spoken of the past ?" 
 
 " Never, never," answers Helene ; " but when he 
 went away and I was left with Oiseau, I asked her 
 milks clwses — a thousand things." 
 
 " Mrs. Bird has evidently erred. She should have 
 maintained a more prudent reserve." 
 
 " Oh, what is the use of being so secret ? Oh, I am 
 sure, I have an idea at least. There is something 
 wrong, — there was something wrong, and I — I — " 
 
 " Helene, Helene, if you would not drive me 
 hence, abstain. Whatever you imagine, speak it not 
 to me." 
 
 " But to be slighted, despised, to have no friends, 
 no relations who care to notice me. Oh ! I can under- 
 stand now why papa must needs go without me," and 
 sinking down, the girl w r ept some bitter tears. 
 
 " There are two on earth, Helene," resumes our master 
 in a voice hoarse with suppressed feeling ; " there are 
 two on earth who love you intensely — your father and 
 myself. Will not this make some amends V* As Sir 
 Charles spoke these words, he could not resist, he bent 
 over the weeping girl, he put his arms around her, and 
 impressed on her brow one fond and tender kiss. 
 
 "If I were sure that you loved me," murmurs Helene 
 amid her still falling tears, " if I were sure — Oh, tell 
 me again that I am precious, that I am dear !"
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 95 
 
 " I tell you that you are my life, my only hope. But, 
 Helene, you do not love me!' 
 
 " 1 did," murmurs the girl, " I could. But when 
 you never came, when I thought that you were care- 
 less, when I thought it had been but a mere passing 
 whim — " 
 
 " Child," answers Charles Daubigny in deep, in 
 tender accents, " if you could but read my mind ; if 
 you could but know how my spirit is ever with you. 
 But circumstances make it almost impossible I should 
 indulge my inclination. "Will you believe in me, 
 Helene ? Will you have faith, whatever may befall ?" 
 
 The girl gazed through her tears on the agitated, the 
 spiritud countenance of her protector. Truth, and 
 love, and interest were so manifestly impressed upon 
 it she could not doubt. Helene was subdued, " You 
 must forget my petulance," she murmured, " will 
 you, and forgive it ? But you so took me by surprise, 
 and a thousand things I got out of Oiseau had half 
 bewildered me. I think I have been angry, too, in 
 my heart with papa for running after his rich old 
 aunt." 
 
 " Your father had a great dislike to go ; I urged him 
 by all means to do so. I believe he would be quite 
 another man, more himself again, if he could look for- 
 ward again to possessing the estate destiny seemed to 
 have provided. Would you not wish him to be less 
 gloomy ?" 
 
 " Yes," answers Helene with a sigh. " But I do not 
 believe any earthly thing can make him happier now. 
 His heart is broken ; he says so."
 
 g6 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 "Oh God, yes !" suddenly broke in impassioned but 
 subdued accents from our master ; " I fear, indeed, like 
 myself, he is beyond the possibility of happiness/' 
 
 " All your land," murmurs the young girl, " all 
 your fortune, the power you have of doing just what 
 you please, does none of this make you happy?" 
 
 " Ah no ! my love. But mine is a peculiar case ; 
 there is a sense of utter loneliness, an entire absence 
 of sympathy that may well depress me. I have no 
 one, no Helene, ever present to love me." 
 
 " And could you be happier if you had me always ?" 
 asks the girl in all the simplicity of unextinguished, 
 childhood, gazing upwards intently on her patron's 
 agitated countenance as she speaks. 
 
 " Alas ! my love, God has provided my destiny ; I 
 must endeavour to be satisfied, I must not murmur."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 After this little outbreak of nature, this impassioned 
 scene, nothing could be more tranquil than the daily 
 intercourse betwixt St. Louis and his prote'ge'c. The 
 girl no longer doubted his love ; she seemed reposing 
 on the sweet assurance, the sweet knowledge she had 
 gained. 
 
 Charles Daubigny had met Helene en masquerade, 
 but the disguise thrown off', how satisfied, how more 
 than satisfied he was with her rich glowing beauty ! 
 
 Yet, yet there was so much in that beauty that told 
 of intense and various feeling, there was such a wild 
 caprice amid the grace of her movements, he could 
 almost feel an additional weight on his spirit as she 
 talked to him, or as silently he gazed upon her. 
 
 What a future had destiny provided for one so full 
 of warmth, of animation ! Were all the sweet energies 
 of her young life to wane away, to be wasted in the 
 solitude of Avonmore ? Then sometimes, as he sadly 
 mused, another and quite an opposite idea would arise 
 to inflict a deeper thrill of pain. 
 
 Was it not possible that Graham's position might 
 even yet be wholly changed ? The widowed aunt with 
 whom he now sojourned had been left sole mistress of 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 98 Ottr Little Gipsy. 
 
 her husband's fortune, with power to bestow it on 
 whomsoever she would. 
 
 In case she did select Graham as her heir, was it 
 likely he would reside continuously in the seclusion of 
 Avonmore ? Oh, it was all very well for the ruined 
 man to say that the world was no place for him, that 
 he had done with it. Eestored to affluence, would he 
 not again be one of it ? Would not Helene, with her 
 beauty, her animation, her graceful manner, be just the 
 person fitted to enter into its delights, and would she 
 not become wholly estranged from himself ? 
 
 Yet despite these sad forebodings that would from 
 time to time intrude, Charles Daubigny experienced a 
 degree of enjoyment of which he had believed himself 
 incapable. To be able to minister to the young girl's 
 gratification, to feel that his every effort was appre- 
 ciated, what an inducement to exertion ! 
 
 Sir Charles presently discovered that Helene was as 
 much a stranger as himself to the various scenes of 
 interest within easy reach of Avonmore. Graham, so 
 completely crushed, so broken down, had no care now 
 for any ruin but his own. The shattered castle, the 
 slowly decaying abbey, had no charm for him. The 
 mighty cliff, the towering mountain, rose in the dis- 
 tance ; he saw them, yet he saw them not. But nothing- 
 spoke so forcibly to his former rival, nothing told of 
 the change that had come over the man so much as 
 the one simple fact that Helene let fall. Never once 
 since her arrival had she been on the river, on that 
 fair queen of rivers, that river that stole so sweetly 
 through the home domain.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 99 
 
 " Why, your father lived half his time in a boat," 
 murmured the baronet, " and I see it is all in good 
 order. How could he resist?" 
 
 " Oh !" cried the girl, and her eyes filled with tears, 
 u he tells me that he cannot/' 
 
 " And have you a taste, Helene, for the water I 
 Would you really like to glide along T 
 
 " Can you row ? " demanded she. 
 
 " Ah ! like your father once — once, Helene." 
 
 " Oh 1 but you are not broken-hearted/' cried she, 
 leaning against her protector, and gazing into his pale 
 face. He sighed, but when playfully the girl knelt 
 before him, when she just touched his pale, thin, blood- 
 less hand with her rosy lips, when imploringly she 
 murmured, " Will you try some day when you feel 
 pretty well, will you ?" a brighter expression lit up 
 his sad countenance ; it was like a gleam of sunshine 
 playing over a wintry landscape. He placed his other 
 hand on her head, he gazed fondly down upon her, but 
 he did not give the kiss inclination prompted. No, he 
 was cool, rational, circumspect now. One kiss he had 
 bestowed upon the girl, but only one, and that when they 
 first met again, when he had found Helene en mas- 
 querade, but yet grieved to very bitterness. " Promise 
 me, my saint, will you?" pleaded Helene, still kneeling. 
 
 " My love," he answered, " I fear I should be all 
 abroad. It is so many years since I have handled an 
 oar, you would only smile at my poor efforts." 
 
 u Then will you only do nothing ; take a man to row, 
 and you yourself sit idly by me. This will be better 
 still."
 
 ioo Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Well, I must see about it. The scenery is indeed 
 lovely on either bank of the river." 
 
 " Oh," cried the girl, planting now a real kiss on the 
 hand of her saint, " oh, it will indeed, indeed be kind." 
 
 In like manner, accidentally, our poor baronet dis- 
 covered that Helen e had the most intense desire to see 
 for herself, to examine, to saunter about a real ruin. 
 
 He had travelled down in his own carriage with post- 
 horses, but he had sent forward to Avonmore a pair of 
 good strong carriage-horses. Hence they were enabled, 
 when Helene's taste had been ascertained, to make 
 excursions to reach the various scenes of interest in the 
 neighbourhood with but little difficulty and fatigue. 
 
 It may seem improbable, yet it was strictly true, 
 that though Helene had travelled much, though she 
 had been a resident in France and in Flanders, she 
 had never had an opportunity of sauntering through or 
 about a ruin. 
 
 Since she had been of an age to comprehend and feel 
 an interest in such things, her father had had too great 
 a weight of sorrow and anxiety upon him to seek any 
 amusement. 
 
 We can scarcely paint then the interest that lit up 
 her yet childlike countenance as she passed through 
 the entrance-gate of Eaglan, when the interior of this 
 exquisite and mighty ruin was first manifested to 
 her view. She stood in the roofless, grass-grown 
 banqueting- room, gazing in silent delight, in profound 
 admiration. 
 
 How charmed was her sensitive companion to find 
 in the playful girl so much of genuine feeling ! And
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 101 
 
 when she had wandered from one roofless room to 
 another, when she had climbed the turret stairs till she 
 was weary, how charmed he was to be able to satisfy 
 her curiosity as to the time and the cause of the castle's 
 destruction ! 
 
 Charles Daubigny was well up in the history of our 
 Civil War, in the history of the unfortunate Stuarts. 
 He had studied the subject ; he had searched, he had 
 read, and now he could pour into Helene's young and 
 ardent mind a new knowledge ; he could awaken in her 
 mind a thirst for more. 
 
 Ah, we see the twain even now as they sat together 
 that summer day on the walls of Eaglan's lofty tower ; 
 we see them on the soft, shaven bowling-green below ; 
 we see them as they partook of their gipsy-like lun- 
 cheon on the verdant turf. That summer day for 
 Helene was almost without a shadow. 
 
 We must now carry our reader from the borders of 
 South Wales, where stretches the vast domain of Avon- 
 more, to that fashionable west-end street wherein Sir 
 Charles possesses a large residence and his sister-in- 
 law rents a very moderate-sized one. 
 
 We must enter Mrs. Cyril Daubigny's narrow hall 
 and ascend her staircase, we must cross the landing 
 and traverse the drawing-room, to find ourselves in her 
 boudoir. 
 
 The fair one did not admit every one to this little 
 room. It was here she reposed, here she planned, here 
 she wrote ; nevertheless, though a strictly private apart- 
 ment, it was furnished with extreme elegance ; for
 
 to2 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 Mrs. Cyril loved fine things, and fine things she would 
 have, and Sir Charles had to pay for her luxurious and 
 refined surroundings. The wall of the buodoir was 
 white and gold ; its shutters, its skirting, its ceiling 
 were decorated to match. The chairs were various; each 
 one a gem. The couch was covered with flowered satin, 
 and the window-curtains of the same costly material. 
 On the floor lay a square carpet of velvet pile, very 
 beautiful in design. Then there was a stand for flowers, 
 bearing now a freight of lovely roses ; and gilded 
 brackets here and there against the wall, freighted 
 with specimens of rare old China, added to the small 
 room's ornamentation. 
 
 Augusta (for such was the first Christian name of Mrs. 
 Cyril) at the moment we enter is the sole occupant of 
 this her nook of privacy. Still handsome, she contrives 
 to look handsomer by the application, the aid of every 
 available artifice. Ah ! we will not scrutinise too closely ; 
 we will only say that for the pctsse'e beauty's age her 
 cheek looks too brilliant, too roseate, the rest of her face 
 too fair. Augusta in her best days had been remarkable 
 for an air of distinction, her figure for its symmetrical 
 proportions. The air of distinction remains, and the 
 figure is even now what is termed a fine figure. In 
 fact, Mrs. Cyril Daubigny is altogether better-looking at 
 a little past fifty than most women one sees are at a 
 little past thirty. Augusta is en deshabille, yet even in 
 the simplest style of dress she could look well ; and now 
 at this moment, in her white muslin morning-gown 
 trimmed with pale pink ribbon, a little cap on her 
 head with ribbon to match, she does look the personifi-
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 103 
 
 cation of her own unsullied pedigree. She had been 
 inquiring for her son ; impatiently she awaits his 
 appearance. He had been pronounced by the butler to 
 be out when she particularly wanted him to be in, and 
 anger and impatience flush her cheek above and below 
 and beyond the bright patch of rouge she wore when 
 even en tUsltabUh. During this irksome period of 
 waiting, Mrs. Cyril had attempted to answer a note, 
 but she had not been able to proceed. There, on her 
 escritoire, lay the sheet of note-paper, but two lines 
 only were traced upon it. 
 
 She had risen from her seat unable to bend her mind 
 to mere complimentary phrase ; her mind was too full of 
 tli at which concerned her more. And now she paces 
 the small apartment in almost utter unconsciousness 
 that she is doing so. 
 
 Presently she hears voices down-stairs, — footsteps in 
 the hall. She feels certain that her son is at home. 
 Forthwith she rings her bell, and orders the page 
 who answers it to send Mr. Tresham immediately. 
 
 In ten minutes the young fellow, with a careless air, 
 presents himself. 
 
 " You are always out of the way," exclaims Augusta, 
 " when I want you." 
 
 " How is it possible, mother, for me to know when 
 you do want me ? If you had only given out now 
 at the breakfast-table, just as a parson does in his 
 pulpit, reverently, I would have tried to remember 
 your text." 
 
 " This is no time for nonsense, Tresham," pursues 
 Augusta. " I am very uneasy about your uncle."
 
 io4 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " You always are, mother, but he never dies ; worse 
 luck for all of us." 
 
 " Hush, child, you should have a care ; some one 
 may be in the drawing-room. There" (after looking into 
 the adjoining room), " there, we are safe now. I tell you 
 I am uneasy, but not about his health." 
 
 " What's up then, mother ?" 
 
 " The unaccountable crazy life he is leading." 
 
 " Is he gone stark mad ? We might shut him up." 
 
 " You seem quite a fool, Tresham. I hate your ill- 
 timed nonsense." 
 
 " Am I to be grave ? Well now, see, I '11 give you just 
 ten minutes " (looking at his watch) ; " I 'm booked." 
 
 " Sit down," cries Augusta peremptorily. " Are you 
 so lost to your own interest ?" 
 
 " Lost to my own interest ? Oh, by Jove, no !" 
 
 " Well, then, be serious. Listen ; sharpen your wits ; 
 see if you can help me." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " You know he 's at Avonmore professing to be alone. 
 He is not alone ; the steward's daughter is there. He 
 has taken a prodigious fancy to this girl. They drive 
 out together ; actually, positively he goes boating with 
 her." 
 
 On hearing this, Tresham opens his fine eyes a little 
 wider than usual, and gives out a little laugh of 
 mockery or amusement. " Why," cries he, " the old 
 fellow 's come to life again ; come to his senses." 
 
 " Come to his dotage, I should say. He must be 
 looked after, and the question is, How ? He would not 
 have the girls when I proposed it. 'Tis clear enough
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 105 
 
 now why. I really dare not make my appearance un- 
 invited. There is so much I must ask him to do 
 presently, that I dare not run the risk of annoying 
 him. Tell me, can you hit on any scheme ? Imagine 
 the poor dupe shut up there with an artful and a 
 beautiful girl." 
 
 " A beautiful gal, mother ? "Who says she \s a beauti- 
 ful gal ?" ^ 
 
 " You may have heard me mention the vicar's wife 
 at Avonmore ; I knew her before her marriage. 
 Occasionally we correspond. From her I learned that 
 the girl is singularly beautiful. But for your uncle's 
 mode of life, that I managed to get out of Eliza. Loath 
 enough she was to tell, too, cautioned, no doubt, by that 
 sly old Mrs. Bird." 
 
 " And so she's handsome, mother ; and you want me 
 to go and look after her, eh ? Well, give me the needful, 
 the cash, and I '11 be off to do your bidding." 
 
 " Tresham, you are insufferable. Can't you be 
 serious?" 
 
 " I am, positively." 
 
 " You are not. I thought that you would have some 
 feeling for me ; some sense of your own interest. I 
 shall not be in the least surprised if, in the end, this 
 girl becomes a stumbling-block in our way. I shall 
 not be in the least surprised if she carries off a part of 
 his money, he is so strange, so unnatural." 
 
 " Well, mother," cries Tresham in a tone of badinage, 
 " I begin to see what you want. You want this little 
 gal drowned, or burked, or burned. Well, I 'm afraid I 
 can't oblige you."
 
 V 
 
 106 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 "I want her watched," exclaims Augusta vehemently; 
 " I want nothing more. I want him to be made con- 
 scious that we know what he is about. And, as far as 
 I can see, you are the only person who might venture." 
 
 " JSTo, mother ; I really can't undertake to make a 
 raid upon him. Latterly he 's not been so easy with me. 
 But, however, it just strikes me — " 
 
 " What strikes you ?" asks Mrs. Cyril eagerly. 
 
 " Why, this. Harry Mostyn has been talking of a 
 fishing-place — a cottage on the Wye. He's seen it 
 advertised. He 's been asking me if I know the place. 
 It's a cottage on the banks of the Wye, about two 
 miles short of Avonmore." 
 
 " Well," cries Augusta, her eyes all excitement. 
 
 " Well," rejoined he, "if he took it I could run down 
 there, and there 'd be my excuse." 
 
 " The very thing," continues Augusta. " Yes, if you 
 could share this place with Captain Mostyn for the 
 next month or two." 
 
 " Where 's the tin, mammy ? I haven't a crown - 
 piece to call my own. It 's all very fine to bid me go 
 to a fellar and make proposals ; but what a d — d 
 fool I should look when the day of reckoning came ! 
 Come," holding out a hand, "it 's a bargain. You furnish 
 me with the wherewithal, and I '11 go and see after the 
 litle gal." 
 
 " Not a sixpence will I give you," cries the wide- 
 awake widow, " till it is needed. You would put the 
 money to some other purpose, utterly forgetful." 
 
 "Oh, oh! hear, hear!" exclaims young Daubigny. 
 " Then I 'm off, my bargain may be — "
 
 Our L it tie Gipsy \ 107 
 
 . " May be you are a born fool. Was ever woman so 
 tormented by idiots ? " 
 
 " There now, mammy, smooth your feathers. I '11 do 
 the business for you. No hanging nor drowning ; tire 
 shall be the element. I '11 carry a hundred Cupids in 
 my eyes, and set the little innocent in a blaze. Mother, 
 if I burn her soul into shreds, if I consume her heart 
 to ashes, tell me what shall be my reward ? " 
 
 " Foolish boy," cries Augusta, " take care you do not 
 get burnt yourself. However, she's too low a creature, 
 too utterly beneath you for anything serious. I repeat, 
 I only want her watched."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 'Tis the summer sunset hour, and through Avonmore's 
 dark cedar-trees streams the sun's last lingering glory. 
 A stillness and a savour of sweet rest spread soft 
 around ; a silence, stillness broken only by such distant 
 sounds as scarce disturb the dreamy soul, nay, rather, 
 tend to hush the senses into softer, more complete repose. 
 
 And stretching like a Fairy's sad funeral train — 
 stretching athwart the rosy-tinted sky, — singly, slowly 
 float the rooks this summer eve towards Avonmore. 
 High aloft they soar, so high that the harsh notes they 
 utter fall on the listener's ear below subdued and 
 almost plaintive. Never fails the sable flock at sunset 
 hour to soar towards the mighty trees that shelter 
 Avonmore. But seldom, perhaps, so slowly, seldom, 
 perhaps, so singly, had they soared towards their sleep- 
 ing-place as on this soft June eve. 
 
 The day had been a day of summer's sweetness, such 
 as we snatch so few of now. At noon the heat had been 
 so great the heavy roses drooped, the tall white lilies 
 bowed their virgin heads. And the young girl, like the 
 flowers she loved, had felt the mid- day heat like them ; 
 she drinks in now the soft and dewy evening air. 
 Helene is sitting in a rustic chair upon the lawn ; St.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 109 
 
 Louis stands beside her. Subdued she is, nay, almost 
 sad, and this without apparent reason. She gazes up- 
 wards on the long dark line formed by the home-bound 
 rooks ; she watches till they slowly settle in their 
 mighty trees, and thus disappear from view. Scarce, 
 however, had they settled down, when suddenly one 
 solitary bird emerges from the boughs and floats right 
 o'er the spot where Helene sits, uttering as it hovers 
 there its mournful, its ill-omened note. 
 
 " Oiseau," cried the girl to her companion, " Oiseau 
 would say this bodes no good." 
 
 " 'Tis, I suspect, a stray crow," replied Sir Charles, 
 " that by some accident joined the flock, but is not per- 
 mitted by the rightful tenants to have a lodging for the 
 night at Avonmore." 
 
 "Ah!" cried the girl, " un corbeau, taut pis. Yes, 
 Oiseau said a crow. She has taught me what they say. 
 One of sorrow, two of mirth." Then suddenly remem- 
 bering that the rest of the old saying was scarcely to be 
 repeated to a man, she hurriedly, or rather abruptly 
 paused. 
 
 Sir Charles was little given to laughter, but it was 
 almost with a laugh that he asked why she did not go on. 
 
 Instead of making any reply, Helene, starting up, said, 
 " Do you see that ?" 
 
 "What?" asked he. 
 
 " A man," replied the girl, " coming through the 
 shrubbery. Yes, he is now at the end of the lawn." 
 
 Sir Charles turned his eyes in the direction indicated. 
 He saw the figure move rapidly forward, and in another 
 minute recognised the intruder as his nephew.
 
 1 10 Otir Little Gipsy. 
 
 " I am taking you strangely by surprise," broke from 
 the young man as he approached, " but I thought it 
 better to come to Avonmore at once, lest you should 
 hear such an individual was hanging about the country 
 from other lips than my own." 
 
 " I must say," replied the baronet, with great coldness 
 in his manner, " that your sudden and unlooked-for visit 
 astonishes me. AVill you give me some explanation?" 
 
 " Well, uncle, you will find it is a very simple affair. 
 I 'm sorry to say nothing romantic or exciting. A 
 friend of mine saw advertised a fishing-box to let on 
 your river. He took it all in the mist, and insisted 
 on carrying me along with him for this his first 
 inspection." 
 
 " Then you are staying with this friend. Pray, may 
 I ask the name of the place he has taken, and how far 
 it is from here ?" 
 
 " It is called Vaga, and is a good two miles short of 
 Avonmore." 
 
 " And may I further inquire how you came ? Surely 
 you who so detest country strolls did not walk." 
 
 " Gad, no, uncle ; I came gliding along soft as any 
 salmon-trout. Mossy lent me, or rather sent me, in a 
 boat belonging to the cottage. And, by the way, this is 
 what I must beg — just to put up for the night here. 
 I shan't like to leave in a minute ; and I don't want to 
 keep the fellow who brought me waiting, and as I left 
 Mostyn just going in to dinner — " 
 
 " Then the long and the short of the matter is, 
 Tresham, that you want first a dinner, then a bed," 
 murmured Charles Daubigny.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 1 1 1 
 
 Tresham nodded his head. 
 
 " We are not expecting stray visitors," continued Sir 
 Charles somewhat stiffly, " and I must go in at once and 
 inform Mrs. Bird ; the sheets will have to be aired, and 
 for aught I know the bed may be damp." 
 
 " Gad, a mercy, uncle ; why, if the sheets were wring- 
 ing wet I think I 'd welcome 'em. I 've been burning, 
 scorching all day. But for the dinner, if you would be 
 so thoughtful, for I 'm somewhat in need, and tell her 
 to give me an enormous pitcher of beer, or a huge jug of 
 claret. My throat, uncle, is positively on fire." 
 
 " Ah, yes, no doubt," cried Sir Charles. 
 
 " You have dined, I suppose," continued the thirsty 
 soul. 
 
 " We have dined, but Mrs. Bird can find something — 
 something to serve up. She can give you a dinner. I '11 
 just go and speak to Mrs. Bird," and Sir Charles de- 
 parted, leaving his nephew and Helene standing on 
 the lawn together. 
 
 "What a strange old fish this uncle of mine is !" 
 cried the nephew, as soon as his uncle was out of hear- 
 ing. " What a strange old character he is, he has never 
 introduced us ; doesn't mean to, I suspect, or he has 
 forgotten. Allow me, then, continued the new-comer, 
 allow me to do the tender office for myself. You see 
 before you Tresham Daubigny, the only son of Cyril 
 and Augusta, the hope of the family, seeing my uncle 
 won't marry, the heir-expectant, that is, the fellar 
 who '11 have all the estates when he 's safe in heaven. 
 Moreover, I must add for your benefit, that the world — 
 the prudish, the divine, the moral world — says that the
 
 1 12 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 individual before you is a very worthless fellar, who 
 only goes about a-sowing his wild oats. The moral 
 world 's not so wrong neither, and I mean to pull up. 
 Not to-day, however ; I 've got one measure more to 
 scatter, and precious care I '11 take not to waste a grain. 
 Come, now, fair nymph of the woods, you must know 
 this country better than I. Where is a goodly soil ? 
 Will you give me a lesson in agriculture ? Will you 
 go a-sowing with me? I haven't any time to lose; 
 mother bothers horribly, and tells me I am reck- 
 less, and recommends, as a preventative of sin, that 
 I commit matrimony with some witch of her find- 
 ing. This old fish here's grown so impatient, he's 
 ready to shake his fist in my face, only he daren't ; 
 he hasn't the pluck to do it. Come, now, having 
 given you such a notable example of candour, won't 
 you repay me with a like return ? If you won't 
 be so generous as I, at least let fall to a poor 
 beggar some small coin. Come, I say, tell me, are 
 you positively our steward's daughter ? At least let 
 me hear your Christian name ; is it Annie, Ada, 
 Florence, or Minnie?" 
 
 Helene, offended by the disrespectful manner in 
 which the stranger spoke, offended still more by the 
 bold free glances he bestowed upon her, did not deign 
 to reply. 
 
 " You are silent," continued Tresham, " then 1 shall 
 perforce have to address you as the fair mystery, or 
 the angelic anonyma. How could I expect to find 
 such a divinity on the lawn of Avonmore, and with 
 that old wrinkled individual my uncle, too ?"
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 1 13 
 
 At this instant Helene darted away. She saw Sir 
 Charles on the portico steps and joined him. As 
 Tresham watched from where he lingered, he saw the 
 meeting of his uncle with the girl. He saw how com- 
 fortably familiar they were, that Helene was quite at her 
 ease with the wrinkled anchorite. He was quite enraged, 
 — enraged that his uncle had had the audacity to enjoy 
 himself ; enraged to find that the girl was so lovely, so 
 much a lady, so peculiarly elegant in her movements. 
 
 In a few moments Helene went in-doors, and Sir 
 Charles came alone to join his nephew. As the one 
 approached the other exclaimed, " I have been asking 
 your fair companion in vain for a name whereby to 
 address her ; tell me, is she veritably the daughter of 
 your steward?" 
 
 " She is." 
 
 "And, pray, is she going to get her living as a 
 dansease, a columbine V 
 
 " 1 should hope not," answered Sir Charles. 
 
 " Then why, in God's name, is she dressed up in that 
 way, white muslin, blue ribbons, a diamond cross tied 
 round her neck. Surely you would do well to give 
 either the girl or her father a severe lecture. As sure 
 as my name 's Tresham, she '11 come to grief." 
 
 " I have no doubt, Tresham, that were you unre- 
 strained you would do your best to verify your 
 prediction," exclaimed Sir Charles ; " but have a care. 
 You perhaps take my steward for a low-born fellow ; 
 he is a gentleman, though unfortunately in bad cir- 
 cumstances." 
 
 " Oh, I quite understand," pursued the nephew in 
 
 vol. 1. H
 
 ii4 O ur Little Gipsy. 
 
 a tone of irony. " Mother says he 's some scamp yon 
 have picked up abroad ; and, I may add, that, of course, 
 to work on your pity, to induce you to trust him, 
 he 's humbugged you into the belief that he is a born 
 gentleman. Now, uncle Charles, I take it I'm a deal 
 wider awake than yourself ; I 'm much more of a sinner, 
 and I 'm much less likely to be done. From the look 
 of the gal, I should say her father might be an actor, 
 and that she had been trained from her infancy to take 
 part in the performance. I 've looked at her well ; 
 you don't see one gal in a thousand walk as she does." 
 
 " I see it is useless to attempt to conquer your 
 conviction." 
 
 " Quite so, uncle." 
 
 " Very well, the girl, according to your theory, is no 
 way your equal. Then please to observe you will not 
 in my house offer her those attentions which you 
 would to a girl in your own position in life. Until 
 her father's return she is under my supervision ; I shall 
 watch over her henceforth with a more jealous care." 
 
 Whether the conversation would have terminated at 
 this point we know not, but a footman informing 
 Tresham that his cold dinner was ready, and Tresham's 
 insatiate thirst, put an end to it for the present. The 
 Uas6 boy, for indeed he was scarce more than a boy, 
 was given to swallowing quantities of liquid. The 
 burning sun of the summer day had rendered him 
 more than usually in need of some cooling draught.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 When Sir Charles lay restless and sleepless in his bed 
 that night, how bitter were his thoughts ! How did 
 his over-taxed patience, how did his over- burdened 
 spirit long to break through its long hard bondage ! 
 Yes, he would have liked next morning to have for- 
 bidden Tresham ever to set foot on Avonmore again ; 
 he would have liked to have defied the whole tribe to 
 whom he was so much a slave. But had he performed 
 the feat that smothered indignation prompted, he knew 
 it would be like bringing on himself the fiery action of 
 a volcano. He knew his sister-in-law so well ; he 
 knew her imperious temper, the malignity of her dis- 
 position ; he could foresee all that inevitably must 
 follow. Helene and Graham would be driven from 
 Avonmore, and he himself left with only his newly 
 asserted dignity, and a void, an anguish more cruel than 
 before. He would repent when repentance would be 
 useless. The action of the volcano would but have 
 strewn his dreary path with fresh showers of ashes. 
 There would indeed be no green spot. Then dismissing, 
 as well as he could, or rather repressing as well as he 
 could, his indignation, his irritation, it occurred to him
 
 1 1 6 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 would it be better to reveal to Tresham who the girl's 
 father really was ; but here again he presently felt the 
 impulse checked. Graham had become so forgotten in 
 the gay world to which he once belonged, he was so 
 desirous to avoid its notice. He was a man so proud, 
 so apt to take offence, with whom one dared not lightly 
 take a liberty. Tresham, master of the story, would 
 carry it everywhere. George Eochefort Leslie Graham 
 disinterred ! his uncle's farm bailiff ! the former rivals 
 cooing like two turtles ! 
 
 Poor Sir Charles, he felt the blood rise to his own 
 temples as he contemplated the pain he might inflict. 
 He was, he had ever been, a greater slave to his own 
 shrinking sensitiveness than even to Augusta. 
 
 Hours of thought could compass nothing, the whole 
 night's wakefulness could find no remedy; and at length, 
 with a sigh more like a groan, with a feeling of extreme 
 bodily weakness, the result of long- continued conflict- 
 ing feeling, Sir Charles saw that he must endeavour to 
 endure to the end. He sank into a short and troubled 
 sleep at last, from which a servant roused him at 
 seven. He felt now that he could have slept for 
 hours, but reality rushed upon him ; not only was 
 Helene in the house, but Tresham also — Tresham, that 
 long-standing trouble. And so our poor baronet 
 dressed with some trepidation and with unwonted 
 haste. When he reached the breakfast-room he was 
 sensibly relieved ; neither the girl nor his nephew had 
 yet appeared. Still more relieved was he when during 
 breakfast Tresham asked if he could have any con- 
 veyance to carry him back to the cottage.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 1 1 7 
 
 " There is a cart, and I have my carriage ; you may 
 have which you choose," replied Sir Charles. 
 
 "It is not a pig-cart nor a dung- cart ?" Tresham 
 inquired with a sneer. 
 
 " It is the cart Mr. Graham my steward uses." 
 
 " Then, of course" retorted the boy maliciously, 
 " it will be first-rate." Turning to the footman who 
 waited, a man belonging to the baronet's London 
 establishment, Tresham exclaimed, " Tell them to bring- 
 round the cart in twenty minutes." 
 
 The man bowed obsequiously, for every servant be- 
 longing to Sir Charles knew that the imperious Augusta 
 expected that her son should be treated as the future 
 head of the family. 
 
 Tresham's mood seemed wholly to have changed 
 with his last night's repose. Watching the young- 
 fellow closely during breakfast, Sir Charles could 
 not detect that he noticed Helene at all. On 
 leaving he did not so much as offer to shake 
 hands with her ; he made a bow with a supercilious 
 air. 
 
 " I do not like your nephew at all," said the girl, 
 almost as soon as he had really gone. " II n'y a point 
 de respecte ni pour vous ni pour moi. Why do you 
 not marry and at once crush out his insolence ? What 
 do you think he said to me ? That when you are 
 en ciel he will reign here." 
 
 " And so he will, my Helene, undoubtedly." 
 
 " And you do not feel resentful of his want of 
 feeling in speaking to me so coolly of your death ?" 
 
 " My love, I am so accustomed to the idea, I am so
 
 1 1 8 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 satisfied it is ever before the minds of my relations, 
 I have so little care for life." 
 
 " You shall not say this ; you shall not be so for- 
 lorn, so low-spirited," cried the girl, kneeling before 
 her loving patron. " Surely you might find some 
 lady who would love you. Is it never in your mind 
 to marry ?" 
 
 " Never, Helene, never ; I have no idea of marriage, 
 the thought is odious to me. And you, Helene, do 
 you desire, do you recommend it ? Child, how short- 
 sighted you are ! The wife vou would <nve me would 
 cavil the first thing at the one affection I have. Helene, 
 she would try to break off my intercourse with you." 
 
 IEele.ie coloured. "Yes," cried the girl, "like my 
 father's rich old aunt." 
 
 " No, my love, no, you wholly mistake me ; I mean 
 that such an absorbing interest would be felt to be 
 incompatible. No wife could comprehend an affection 
 the source of which would be a mystery." 
 
 " I know, I know," cried the girl : " it is for poor 
 mamma's sake you love me. Oiseau says that I am so 
 like her." 
 
 " Helene, speak not to me of your mother. There is 
 pain to me, there is anguish in every allusion." 
 
 " Then," said the girl, touching his hand with her 
 lips, " I cause you suffering." 
 
 " No, child ; I hope, I trust you will never cause me 
 any suffering. Promise me, dearest Helene, to ask 
 incessantly for God's help. Ask daily, hourly for the 
 guidance of His Holy Spirit. Oh, child, if you did but 
 know the anxiety I feel !"
 
 Otir L title Gipsy. 1 1 9 
 
 " Indeed/' murmured Helene, " I have striven, — I 
 will strive to do right." 
 
 " And now," pursued Sir Charles, " Heaven places a 
 temptation in your way. Helene, I grieve to say it, 
 but I must. My nephew has no rectitude ; he will 
 probably do his best to attract and to mislead you." 
 
 " He takes a strange way of beginning. I am not 
 likely to rind fascination in an unfeeling conceited 
 coxcomb." 
 
 " Child, Tresham is seldom two days of the same 
 mood. To-morrow you might find him quite another 
 person. Perhaps he has already discovered that his 
 audacity does not awe or alarm you. Perhaps he may 
 assume another, a very different tone. For God's Fake 
 have a care." 
 
 "You shall take care of me," murmured Helene; 
 "you always seem to me to be like my appointed 
 guardian angel." 
 
 "Ah, my dear child, I could almost wish indeed 
 that I was a spirit hovering ever about you, unseen, 
 yet powerful to aid." 
 
 " Nay," cried the girl, " it is your very presence that 
 preserves me from evil. When I look into your dear, 
 great, mournful eyes, when I hear your anxious-sound- 
 ing voice, I want no more." 
 
 Sir Charles bent down and pressed one loving yet 
 most holy kiss upon the young girl's shadowed brow. 
 He felt too much depressed for further words. He 
 left the room and wandered forth alone. 
 
 In the loneliest part of the park for the next hour 
 he might have been seen sauntering to and fro. Many
 
 120 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 a man bowed down by poverty and misfortune might 
 have a heart less sad. Of what avail was money ? 
 He felt that he was wanting in gratitude to God. He 
 tried to lift his soul from the dust. But this hour 
 there was a weight upon his heart too heavy. 
 
 After Tresham's first invasion of Avonmore, he con- 
 tinued almost daily at some hour to appear before 
 Helene and Sir Charles. He seemed determined to 
 make his uncle feel that, being one of the family, there 
 was no occasion to use ceremony with him. But so 
 well, apparently, had he profited by the caution that 
 had been given in regard to Helene, that with her he 
 was ceremonious to the last decree. He treated the 
 girl with a sort of frozen courtesy — a frozen courtesy 
 never laid aside. The master of the mansion saw no 
 attempt at intimacy, no approach to familiarity. 
 
 Helene, however, could presently detect that if Sir 
 Charles happened to have his back turned — if he hap- 
 pened to be reading or writing — then Tresham took the 
 liberty of using his eyes. He would gaze upon her in 
 these brief intervals with a gaze how unlike the bold 
 and audacious glances he had bestowed upon her at 
 their first meeting ! 
 
 As day after day passed on, the girl became, as it 
 were, burdened by a consciousness that she had created 
 an interest. It was but too evident that the wild 
 young fellow sought to impress her with such a belief. 
 
 Sometimes Tresham would reach down a book from 
 the library shelves, and pretend to be absorbed in its 
 contents. The book, however, was, in fact, used but as
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 1 2 1 
 
 a mere mask or screen, from behind which, even when 
 his uncle was by, he could, unperceived, indulge in 
 these stolen glances. 
 
 Tresham had very fine eyes. They could speak a 
 language more spirituel, more subtle, more refined, than 
 any words he could have used. They could hint of 
 that that his lips dared not utter ; they could tell of a 
 vivid and a »rowin" interest, ere lorn? of a real and 
 haunting passion. At first, before she herself had be- 
 come in any way touched by these silent flatteries, 
 Helene thought she would remark on the simulation 
 practised by young Daubigny. She had a great mind 
 to mention to St. Louis what use the nephew made 
 of his uncle's minutes of absence or occupation. But 
 if she had said, " Really I am obliged sometimes to go 
 away ; really there is something embarrassing in your 
 nephew's watching me so," might not Sir Charles 
 have imagined that vanity induced the supposition, 
 especially as Tresham never even deigned to hold out 
 a hand to her on his arrival or departure, but only and 
 always greeted her, coming and going with such a civil 
 bow as would be due to the bailiff's daughter ? 
 
 AVhat a strange combination was thrown together 
 in this hapless lad ! His character, his person, his 
 pursuits, his actions, seemed all haphazard. His nature 
 was in every sense conflicting, his conduct irreconcil- 
 able, inconsistent. His figure was indeed w ell- propor- 
 tioned, but how slight ! His face was almost girl-like 
 yet. But nature, as if to mock at this effeminacy of 
 appearance, had given to Tresham the strength, the 
 courage, the endurance of a giant. He could sit up
 
 122 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 all night, yet be never the worse on the morrow. His 
 digestion was never known to fail. With impunity he 
 could ride a horse another man dare not mount. He 
 had gained renown as a cricketer. Secretly he patron- 
 ised the ring, and had learned to use his fists as cleverly 
 as many a well-trained pugilist. Nature, withal, in 
 sport had shed over Tresham such an air of delicacy ; 
 nature had set upon him such a stamp of aristocracy. 
 "Who could mistake the likeness ? He was, in truth, 
 Augusta's very son. The mother's air of distinction 
 clave to him even in his wildest hours, his maddest 
 pranks. But Augusta was ever the same Augusta. 
 She never descended from her pedestal, while Tresham 
 could fling himself down from his any day, and find 
 excitement in the change. 
 
 Sir Charles had once really loved Tresham, — had 
 felt a deep interest in him. But he had known so 
 much, he had found so much simulation in the boy, 
 he had had such experience of his falsehood and his 
 worthlessness since, that he had ceased to care — he 
 hoped he had ceased his useless anxiety. He had the 
 greatest dread of his duplicity, and Helene felt certain 
 the anxious uncle had spoken to Mrs. Bird, begging her 
 to keep a watchful eye at the present time over his 
 precious heir- expectant. Helene could plainly see 
 that Oiseau was ever on the alert, that she was very 
 inquisitive, that she did pry into the movements of the 
 young master. 
 
 It was quite evident, too, to the girl that Tresham 
 had no friend in Mrs. Bird. She was quite sure she 
 would never screen his sins.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 123 
 
 One day she said to Heleue, when they happened 
 to be at a window commanding a view of the drive 
 up to the house, pointing, as she spoke, to the retreating 
 figure of Tresham, " Oh ! Miss Helene, what a griev- 
 ous pity it is that with such prospects before him our 
 young master here can't be different. He's always 
 a-doing wrong, and who 'd ever think it that looks on 
 him ! He was the delicatest child. Lord, Miss Helene, 
 no one ever thought he 'd be reared. And what 's he 
 been saved for ? Pity it was he didn't go then, for 
 what he does, and what he did when he were a mere 
 boy in age, God only knows. Drink ! he can drink 
 like a fish. Damn and curse too. Fight ! ay, with 
 tliem little white hands. Why, he 'd knock any one 
 down as affronted him as soon as look at 'em ; and as 
 for money, what han't Sir Charles had to pay for him ! 
 Dice and cards, betting, racing. Oh, what a grief he 's 
 been to my poor master ! " 
 
 " He seems very quiet now, at any rate," remarked 
 the girl. 
 
 " Then, depend upon it, he 's got some mischief in 
 his head ; something he 's a-brewing." 
 
 These charges made by the nurse against young 
 Daubigny^ were in a measure supported by scraps of 
 conversation Helene seemed doomed to overhear. 
 
 One morning Sir Charles said to him, " I thought, 
 Tresham, you 'd done with racing. Did you not give 
 me your word, when I set you free from your difficulty 
 last year, that you would abjure the race-course ?" 
 
 " Well, sir, and have I not ? I can swear that from 
 that day to this I haven't witnessed a race."
 
 124 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 "What means this?" asked Sir Charles, placing a 
 finger on a particular part of the newspaper. " Well, 
 do you find the place ?" 
 
 " No ; I see nothing." 
 
 " Then I will read it to you," exclaimed Sir Charles. 
 "Amongst the list of horses entered to run at Newmarket 
 races I read Dew- Drop, the owner, Tresham Daubigny, 
 Esq. Is not this a recommencement ? or, no, it is more 
 than possible, in an underhand manner, you may have 
 never discontinued." 
 
 " You are too hard upon me, uncle Charles. Can I 
 help such a thing getting into the papers ? It is some 
 mistake the fools have made." 
 
 " I hope it may be as you represent," retorted the 
 uncle ; " but lest it should not, I now repeat my warn- 
 ing. Nothing shall ever induce me a second time to 
 bring out money for such a purpose." 
 
 " You need not persecute me with your miserly 
 threats," exclaimecf Tresham, the colour mounting to 
 his temples, and the tone of his voice giving evidence 
 of suppressed anger, " I as little desire to touch your 
 money as you to pull it out;" and the young fellow 
 quitted the room to pace up and down the carriage - 
 sweep outside the house, striving, perhaps, to regain 
 his wonted coolness and self-command. 
 
 We have now arrived at a certain day in the third 
 week of Tresham Daubigny's stay at the fishing-box. 
 On this day was to commence the first break in the 
 civil or formal intercourse that had been established 
 betwixt Helene and himself. Sir Charles hitherto had
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 125 
 
 managed to keep so jealous a watch over the young 
 people, that often as they had been thrown together 
 they had scarcely ever been left alone together for 
 more than a few minutes at a time. 
 
 But on this particular morning, whether St. Louis 
 would or no, he was compelled, in his capacity of 
 magistrate, to confer with a farmer of the neighbour- 
 hood, who requested to speak to him, his landlord, on 
 urgent business. 
 
 Tresham then entering the library, had the good 
 fortune to find Helene alone. He knew that Sir 
 Charles could not escape from the tenant-farmer for at 
 least the next half-hour, and he resolved to make hay 
 while the sun shone. On seeing Helene the civil and 
 customary bow was not performed. Tresham, advanc- 
 ing towards the girl, held out his hand. She could 
 not absolutely refuse to give her own, and the little 
 Gipsy hand received such a long and tender pressure 
 as it had never known before. \Ere he relinquished 
 his grasp, with eyes that pleaded too, he said, " Tell 
 me, can you, do you forgive the folly and the insolence 
 I perpetrated at our first meeting ? How can I expect 
 you to forgive that that I must ever recall with annoy- 
 ance, nay, with real pain ?" 
 
 Helene, taken entirely by surprise, stood silent 
 before the youn" fellow, her eves downcast, her cheeks 
 suffused with blushes. 
 
 " You are silent," he continued. " You have every 
 reason to feel resentful. "Will it appease your anger — 
 will it induce you to pardon when I tell you that 
 destiny has given you compensation ? Yes, wherever I
 
 126 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 may be, whatever may befall, your sweet young voice 
 will greet me. Your loveliness will haunt — " 
 
 Tresham had got so far. Whatever eccentric words 
 he would next have uttered we shall never know, for 
 as he arrived at the word " haunt " there came a smart 
 tap at the door, and Thomas the footman entering, 
 addressed the young master thus : — 
 
 " If you please, sir, shall I show Captain Mostyn in 
 here ? He 's been a-lookin' for you, sir, and says he 
 must find you." 
 
 "Confound Mostyn !" broke from Tresham. " What 
 the devil does he want ? " 
 
 " He wants to speak to you, sir, I believe, about 
 some gentleman, sir, who 's arrived at the fishing- box." 
 
 " Tell him to come to the window." (It was a 
 window nearly down to the ground.) " I can talk to 
 him just as well as if he were inside." 
 
 Helene presently heard Captain Mostyn addressing 
 young Daubigny (the latter leaning out on the window 
 sill). 
 
 " A pretty fellow you are, Daubigny ! There 's 
 Elwes at our place in a devil of funk. He 's actually 
 travelled sixty miles to find you. Have you really 
 forgotten the Cheltenham steeple-chase?" 
 
 " I hoped he had." 
 
 " It comes off to-morrow. He tells me you pro- 
 mised to ride his horse." 
 
 "Why don't he get some other fellar to ride his 
 d— d horse ? " 
 
 "Well, if you'd given him notice; if you had but 
 said you shouldn't be able, and so on."
 
 Our L ittle Gipsy. 127 
 
 " Go back and tell him I give him notice now." 
 
 " I shall do no such thing. You must see Elwes 
 yourself. He says your name is down as one of the 
 stewards, and that you volunteered to be very active in 
 the affair." 
 
 " Then he wants to drag me to Cheltenham to-night, 
 eh ? Why can't you ride the brute ?" 
 
 " Oh, by Jove, no ! I 've too much regard for my own 
 neck." 
 
 " And I 'm to care nothing for mine ?" 
 
 " Well, my dear fellow, hitherto you've shown about 
 as much regard for your neck as for your soul. I 'm 
 ready any day to throw my hat up in the air and cry 
 ' Hurrah ! ' if you '11 give me notice of amendment. Come," 
 continued Mostyn, " are you ready to go ? I can't stand 
 here all day in the sun waiting your pleasure." 
 
 Daubigny now turned to Helene. " Say one kind 
 word — one word before I go." 
 
 The girl, who by this time had recovered her self- 
 possession, yet answered nothing, save that on her lips 
 and in her eyes was pictured disbelief. 
 
 " You will not," he continued, " you will not so much 
 as say that if I return here you will be glad to see me." 
 
 " Why should I," now broke from Helene's rosy 
 lips, and with a curious little shake of the head she 
 added playfully, " I shall not go a- sowing wild oats 
 with you if you do come back ; no, nor tame oats 
 neither. A little bird of the air has warned me to be 
 wise and wary." 
 
 '• That bird of wisdom is my uncle Charles. He has, 
 of course, been hooting of my sins. I know what you
 
 128 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 will do," continued Daubigny. " The very instant I am 
 off, you will fly to your old pet ; you will repeat to him 
 the little I have said. In his fit of crazy wisdom he 
 will magnify the mere fact of our tete-a-tete. He will 
 see design, craft, subtlety in my speaking to you when 
 he was inextricably engaged. Tell me, am I to look for 
 this kind favour, this kind office at your hands ? He 
 and I are bad enough as it is ; but you may make 
 matters far worse betwixt us yet." 
 
 " Take back the idle flattering words that you have 
 uttered," cried the girl, with something between scorn 
 and badinage in her voice and manner. " Consider 
 you have spoken them but to the winds. I promise to 
 give as little sign as they." 
 
 " I do not recall one word," answered Daubigny. 
 
 " I say, old fellow, what are you about ?" cries Mostyn, 
 leaping, as he speaks, in at the open window. " Oh ! by 
 Jove " (bowing to Helene), " I beg a thousand pardons. 
 If I had had the least idea how my friend was engaged, 
 upon my soul I would not — " 
 
 " You need not apologise, indeed," murmured Helene, 
 covered with confusion ; and like a little simpleton as 
 she was, added, " I assure you I am alone here with 
 Mr. Daubigny quite by accident." 
 
 " A very charming accident for my friend," continued 
 the audacious captain. " I am not at all surprised at his 
 unwillingness to risk his neck. I presume, Tresham, 
 we may look for other startling novelties ?" 
 
 " 1 wish you would not make yourself such a con- 
 founded idiot," cried Daubigny. " Here, let me be off 
 before you have time to fire another of your random
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 129 
 
 shots," and without even a bow to Helene, he was 
 gone. 
 
 The captain, after another apology, and laughing 
 over his friend's irascible temperament, also quitted the 
 room, but not by the way he had so unceremoniously 
 entered it. 
 
 vol. 1.
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 Young Daubigny was gone, and strange to tell, Helene 
 felt unsettled, restless. That perfect tranquillity of mind 
 she had known before he appeared, that unsullied 
 peace had passed away. She tried to regain her former 
 placidity, she tried to forget the young fellow's exist- 
 ence ; but no, it could not be. Perhaps if he had never 
 been coming back it had been different with her, but 
 there was a future. 
 
 The girl managed to conceal the impression Daubigny 
 had made upon her. She even now and then told 
 almost an untruth to conceal the fact. She led St. 
 Louis to believe she was more than satisfied by his 
 nephew's absence ; and Sir Charles flattered himself no 
 harm had been done. 
 
 Helene, feeling thus conscious that young Daubigny 
 had by some means affected her, was not prone now 
 to intrude his name, much less the manner of his de- 
 parture. But she could glean from the little his uncle 
 said, that he must have gone off certainly without giving 
 any explanation, that Sir Charles had no idea whether 
 he would return, or if he did, when it would be. 
 
 Day passed after day. Helene wondered every morn- 
 ing whether amongst the uncle's many letters there
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 131 
 
 would be one from his nephew. But no letter 
 came from Tresham. At length more than a week 
 had passed away, and Helene wondered to herself 
 whether he ever would return, or whether, with that 
 kind of uncertainty which Sir Charles told her charac- 
 terised all his actions, nay, his whole nature, he had 
 abandoned the idea. 
 
 It was a summer eve, as soft, as holy as that whereon 
 our sinner first appeared before the girl. The sun had 
 sunk, but the sky was still. How beautiful with 
 golden glory ! — a glory that showed up branch and trunk, 
 that darkly towered, of each great cedar shadowing 
 Avonmore. 
 
 Helene was making tea in a room that looked out on 
 the drive up to the house. Suddenly she paused in her 
 attempt. She held the sugar-tongs, but she forgot to 
 use them ; she forgot to put the sugar into her patron's 
 cup. A sound of wheels attracted her ; she did not 
 speak ; a sort of consciousness that it might be young 
 Daubigny returned kept her mute. Sir Charles was the 
 first to speak. " Something coming, I think," he said, 
 and if any one had been by to observe him, they would 
 have seen that his delicate and attenuated countenance 
 became a shade paler. Yes, in his soul he had said as 
 the girl had said in hers, " Perhaps it is Tresham." 
 
 Neither of them had long to be in doubt. The hall- 
 bell rung, and presently, almost instantly, Daubigny 
 entered the room where the twain were seated. One 
 arm was in a sling ; lie looked very ill — very, very pale. 
 But as Helene gazed, that very paleness seemed to her 
 to heighten the beauty of the reckless being before her.
 
 132 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Uncle Charles," cried he on entering, " uncle 
 Charles, I hope you will not mind, but I've had an 
 accident which has kept me ever so many days at an 
 inn. I hope, I say, you won't mind my coming here for 
 a bit. If I go to the cottage, there 's not a soul there 
 to see to me." 
 
 " I am very sorry," replied Sir Charles, trying to look 
 civil, " but really I should say you had far better have 
 gone home to your mother." 
 
 "My mother, be bothered!" cried the unruly lad; 
 1 she 's a perfect wasp when anything of this sort hap- 
 pens. No, I want Mrs. Bird to see to me. The doctor 
 says I only want care. I shall be all right with wet 
 bandages in a few days. May I send away the car- 
 riage, uncle Charles ? It 's a hired carriage, and I 've 
 no man with me to bother you." 
 
 " Well, it 's altogether unfortunate. You look indeed 
 in a state of suffering. There 's no medical man to be 
 depended on here." 
 
 " Never mind the medical man, but just tell me, 
 may I stay?" cried Tresham uneasily, impatiently. 
 
 "Of course you must stay," replied St. Louis 
 pathetically. 
 
 The wild young fellow then rang the bell, and 
 ordered Thomas the footman to inquire of the driver 
 what he had to pay. 
 
 " Three pounds, sir ; he says it 's a long journey, 
 sir," reports Thomas after seeing the driver. 
 
 Tresham now felt in all his pockets, one after 
 another, and finished by declaring he was regularly 
 cleaned out. " Thought I 'd half-a-dozen sovereigns
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 133 
 
 about me," he exclaimed. " And see, uncle Charles, 
 that 's all I can fiud," showing one. " Will you please 
 pay the rest ?" 
 
 St. Louis took out his purse (a dainty little silken 
 one netted by Helene), and lent or gave his nephew 
 the other two sovereigns ; and then Tresham, despatch- 
 ing the money by Thomas, cast himself into a great 
 leathern chair. 
 
 " I suppose you will give some account of how all 
 this happened," presently broke from the uncle. 
 
 " Miss Graham can testify how unwillingly I went," 
 answered Tresham ; then turning his gaze on Helene, 
 and addressing her, he added, " You heard my friend 
 Mostyn ; you know how he dragged me away." 
 
 Sir Charles absolutely started ; it was the first time 
 he had heard his nephew thus familiarly or confiden- 
 tially address the girl. 
 
 " Yes, I do know," murmured Helene, " for I was in 
 the library when you talked to him as he stood outside 
 the window." 
 
 " Didn't he bother me to go ?" inquired Tresham, 
 gazing upon her. 
 
 Blushing and confused, as she observed that Sir 
 Charles also had his eyes fixed upon her, was our 
 little Gipsy. 
 
 "I am not in the least enlightened," continued St. 
 Louis, looking more intently still upon the girl, and 
 having something of pain and amazement in his gaze. 
 " Helene, is it possible that you knew on what errand 
 my nephew was bent, and never told me?" 
 
 " I thought, of course, sir," replied Helene, " that he,
 
 1 34 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 that Mr. Daubigny, had seen you before he left the 
 house." 
 
 "Oh dear, no!" retorted the uncle with unusual 
 exasperation in his tone. " Oil dear, no ! Ceremony, 
 even decency is usually laid aside in my case." 
 
 " Didn't you hear him now ?" broke from Tresham, 
 his eyes fixed upon Helene's as he spoke. " Didn't he 
 say he wouldn't stand any longer outside waiting my 
 pleasure ? Didn't Mostyn drag me away ?" 
 
 " He said you must go," murmured the girl. 
 
 " So, uncle Charles," pursued Tresham, " I couldn't 
 see you. There was a fellar at the cottage seeking for 
 me, a fellar who insisted I 'd promised to ride his horse 
 next day at the Cheltenham steeple-chase ; I 'd for- 
 gotten, that is, I meant to forget if I ever did promise." 
 
 "And you did ride this man's horse?" asks Sir 
 Charles. 
 
 " Why, yes, uncle; how the devil couldl get out of it?" 
 
 " You could very well have said that you had given 
 your word never to ride in a steeple-chase again." 
 
 " Well, but how d' ye know I hadn't promised this 
 fellar before the time you mean ?" 
 
 " It isn't likely. 
 
 " Well, sir, they all swore I 'd promised last year, and 
 so I was in for it. The horse w T as a brute, but, how- 
 ever, I won the fellar his money. But, you see, I've 
 enough of it for the next hundred years. You needn't 
 preach, sir ; I feel so bad now, I wish you 'd tell Mrs. 
 Bird to get my room ready directly, uncle Charles — the 
 bed. I must try and sleep ; that beastly inn, the noise 
 in it was absolutely infernal."
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 135 
 
 Sir Charles needed no further prompting. Off he 
 strode, only too glad to have a chance of disposing of 
 his nephew. He was absent from the room only a few 
 minutes, but found on his return that those few 
 minutes had not been passed in silence. 
 
 Tresham did not appear next day till after the out- 
 door clock at Avonmore had told our Helene it was 
 noon ; and when he did appear, he either was, or 
 feigned to be, a suffering invalid. 
 
 On account of the difficulty of getting at his bad 
 arm, and keeping wet baudages on it under a tight 
 coat sleeve, Mrs. Bird had fished out from the old 
 chest of drawers a loose-sleeved damask coat, a gar- 
 ment perhaps a hundred years old. It was a sort of 
 salmon colour or oriflamrne, seemed scarcely ever to 
 have been used, and really became the prodigal, and 
 fitted him very well. Arrayed in this, Tresham came 
 down to breakfast. He had ordered coffee, and when 
 the tray appeared, he further ordered Thomas to place 
 it on a table before the sofa, on which he himself half 
 reclined. 
 
 As the girl watched by stealth the movements of 
 the invalid while he made his late breakfast, she could 
 not help feeling almost burdened by a consciousness 
 that his great dark eyes, with tender meaning in them, 
 were ever seeking to encounter her own. She could 
 not help fancying, too, that he was a little acting the 
 invalid. However, the paleness of his complexion 
 testified that he was not well. This absence of colour, 
 as we have before said, rather enhanced his good looks. 
 The expressive dark eyes, the long dark lashes, the
 
 136 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 marked and beautifully-formed eyebrows, the slight 
 moustache on the upper lip, seemed to be better 
 brought out, made more conspicuous, now that the 
 colour had deserted his cheeks. 
 
 As Helene continued stealthily making her survey, 
 she noticed that his every movement, even now that 
 he suffered, or pretended to suffer, was marked by a 
 peculiarity, was characterised by an audacious freedom. 
 
 Yes, though his uncle, as he must know, suspected 
 his every word to be an untruth, his every movement 
 to be a feint, yet he could not be embarrassed, he could 
 not be abashed, or awkward, he was perfectly easy and 
 graceful in his manner. 
 
 To-day, although continually eyeing the girl by 
 stealth, he spoke very little to her. Yesterday he had 
 a motive, a purpose, a design, in speaking to her before 
 Sir Charles. 
 
 Then he wanted her testimony to prove that he had 
 not voluntarily ridden his last steeple-chase ; that 
 Captain Mostyn had almost insisted. To-day he 
 wanted to lull his uncle's suspicions in regard to 
 Helene. He was acting a wily part ; he wanted, as he 
 himself would have worded it, " to put the governor 
 off the scent, or on a wrong scent ;" and it was doubt- 
 less with this view, that in the course of the day, 
 carelessly, he said, " Uncle Charles, who is that very 
 pretty gal at the lodge ? She certainly was not here 
 before I left." 
 
 "Which lodge do you speak of?" asked the uncle, 
 looking up from a letter he was writing. 
 
 " The lodge close here, at the drive-entrance to the
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 137 
 
 garden. I was quite struck with her. She came out 
 and opened the gate yesterday when the fellar with the 
 fly drove me in." 
 
 " You are right, Tresham," answered Sir Charles. 
 " The girl was not at the lodge before you went off, 
 aud I am sorry she is here now." 
 
 ■ Why. if I may ask ? Is she too pretty ?" 
 
 " I should not quarrel with her pretty face," replied 
 the uucle, still pen in hand, " but I 'ni afraid, from 
 what Mrs. Bird tells me, she is anything but an acqui- 
 sition in other respects." 
 
 Sir Charles went on writing again. He was pressed 
 for time. He had other letters to write beside the one 
 in progress. 
 
 Tresham, seeing his uncle's head down, seeing his pen 
 in motion, quick as a monkey wrote on the back of a 
 letter, and pushed it across the sofa-table to Helene, 
 "Another b.rd of the air in the house — the old hen- 
 harrier. Won't she pick me to pieces ?" Then again 
 addressing his uncle, who now was folding up his letter, 
 " Don't you give Mrs. Bird an extra £5 a year, uncle 
 Charles, for looking after the morals of the gals on your 
 estate ? Doesn't she give you some news of their Sunday 
 walks with their sweethearts — their young men ?" 
 
 " "No ; I never encourage gossip. I hate hearing tales 
 about these sort of people, and I should have heard 
 nothing of this girl if I had not inquired. Like your- 
 self, Tresham, I was struck by her pretty, innocent- 
 looking countenance, and asked, of course, how all of a 
 sudden she was at my lodge." 
 
 "Well, and Mrs. Bird immediately said something
 
 138 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 to blacken that pretty face, to darken its light in your 
 estimation. Women always do so if they have a 
 chance." 
 
 " Mrs. Bird merely told me that though the girl had 
 such an artless look, she was no rustic maiden, but had 
 come back here from Bath, where she had for two years 
 been with a first-rate modiste." 
 
 " Well, but surely Mrs. Bird could find no crime in 
 this?" 
 
 " No, certainly. The sin lies in the cause of her 
 dismissal ; she is not a steady girl. And now, if your 
 curiosity is not sufficiently satisfied, you must suspend 
 further inquiry till Mrs. Bird applies the next wet 
 bandage," and the uncle arose from his chair and 
 glanced, as he spoke, expressively towards Helene. 
 
 Tresham nodded his head with a knowing, an amused, 
 and a saucy light dancing in his eyes, and was silenced, 
 as far as the girl at the lodge went, but he was pre- 
 sently down again on Mrs. Bird. 
 
 " You say you do not give coin to Oiseau for looking 
 after ''em creatures' leetle sins'? No; but you give a 
 bribe, a bonus, a reward, nevertheless. Witness that 
 bussok and the garden chair. Why, d' ye think I 
 haven't heard of it ? Nay, uncle Charles, I Ve done 
 more ; I 've seen that nice little present of yours. I 
 met the old dame the very day after I left, driving 
 her bussok along a country lane ; and this morning, 
 while she was seeing to my arm, I made her relate. 
 She 's as proud of your gift as a monkey is of its tail. 
 That 's the way to bind her to your interest." 
 
 " It was very good of you, dear," murmured Helene
 
 Our L title Gipsy \ r 3 9 
 
 softly, almost in a whisper, kneeling as she spoke before 
 St. Louis. The girl had seen that her patron's sensi- 
 tiveness was disturbed, if not wounded by Tresham's 
 words, or by the mocking, mirthful tone with which 
 those words had been seasoned. " Oiseau really loves 
 you," continued Helene ; " Oiseau deserves everything 
 you think fit to bestow upon her." 
 
 " It is well," answered Sir Charles, with a deep sigh ; 
 " it is well that there is one in the world who prefers 
 me." 
 
 " Not only one," murmured the girl, still kneeling ; 
 and as she spoke these few last words, tenderly as 
 a daughter might, she pressed her lips against her 
 patron's wan and wasted hand. 
 
 " Oh, my child," murmured Sir Charles in reply, 
 '' with the very young there is so much variation. 
 What is truth to-day might not be to-morrow." 
 
 Tresham, as we have seen, was not so poorly as to 
 be incapacitated from teasing his sensitive uncle, nor 
 from glancing when opportunity offered at Helene. 
 AVe have shown that on the day after his return to 
 Avonmore, he was comfortable enough to indulge in 
 these laudable feats. But with that contrariety which 
 seemed to be his distinguishing characteristic, next 
 morning, though, he came to breakfast with Sir Charles 
 and Helene, he complained of headache and thirst, 
 " and that, do what he would, he could get no sleep all 
 night." He had tossed about the whole night, he said, 
 and was glad when he heard people moving, that he 
 might get up and have done with it.
 
 140 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 This morning the pale olive of his countenance was 
 singularly relieved by a bright — a too bright — glow of 
 colour on each cheek, and when he shook hands with 
 his uncle on entering the breakfast-room, St. Louis felt 
 that the palm of the little white hand he offered was 
 hot and dry. He drank off two whole cups of tea 
 eagerly enough, but could eat nothing, and his features 
 were clouded over with gloom. He was very silent ; 
 his native love of mischief for the present subdued : it 
 could not survive under such a crushing headache. 
 Sir Charles could see plainly enough that Tresham was 
 really an invalid, and knowing how seldom he did suffer 
 from headache, restlessness, burning hands, and thirst, 
 wore an extra look of care on his own brow. In the 
 course of the morning eau-de-Cologne and hartshorn were 
 called for by the sinner ; he declared his head ached 
 terribly. 
 
 "You had better go to your room again and lie 
 down," suggested uncle Charles ; " you may drop asleep 
 and be all right by dinner-time." 
 
 " I am not going to my room at all," answered 
 Tresham with impatience in his voice, " I can't bear 
 my room. Let me lie down here on the sofa." 
 
 " With all my heart," answered Sir Charles. " Stay, 
 let me get you a softer cushion for your head. There, 
 is that it?" placing the cushion handily enough. 
 
 " Thank you, and now don't notice me. Keep on 
 talking to — to Miss Graham ; that 's more likely to 
 send me to sleep than my own thoughts." 
 
 But despite of Tresham's commands there was very 
 little said by Sir Charles, still less by Helene. She
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 141 
 
 could not help fanning that the terrible headache, the 
 flushed cheeks, the burning thirst, were symptoms of 
 some dire complaint, perhaps to end in death. 
 
 Ere two hours had passed away these seemingly 
 childish fears were shared by St. Louis. The prodigal 
 did fall asleep, and suddenly awoke, calling out, " Uncle 
 Charles, here, make haste ; I think I 'm faint," and 
 sure enough, Tresham was going to faint. Sir Charles 
 ran to the sofa and raised him up, but his head sank 
 back, his eyes closed, his features wore an unnatural, 
 a chastened beauty ; he was in a death-like swoon. 
 
 " My dear Helene, can you undo the buttons of his 
 shirt-collar ?" asks the uncle, for his own arms were 
 engaged in supporting the senseless prodigal. 
 
 Helene obeyed, but her little brunette fingers 
 trembled as she did so. 
 
 " And now," pursued Sir Charles, bring me the 
 hartshorn. Do not lose your senses," continued he, 
 seeing how the girl's own colour had fled, " he is not 
 going to die. These wild young drinking fellows, I 
 believe, must suffer for their madness." 
 
 "Is it only that?" asked Helene tremulously; "not 
 a fever coming ?" 
 
 u I cannot say what may be coming, but hush ! see, 
 he is better ; he is coming to himself." 
 
 " Yes, I am better," murmured Tresham, opening his 
 eyes, and endeavouring to sit up. " Let me have some 
 brandy ; I must have something." 
 
 " Ring, Helene," answered St, Louis with a sigh. 
 " Ah, yes, brandy ; not alone, my dear boy, — water 
 with it, eh?"
 
 142 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Yes," answered the invalid, " soda-water." 
 
 Poor Sir Charles, so anxious to save his precious 
 heir-expectant ! " Thomas, bring the brandy and a 
 bottle of soda-water." 
 
 All, see how tenderly he himself does it all ; he 
 mixes it when it comes, carries it to the worthless 
 lad, who drains the glass, and is laid gently down again, 
 and now falls into a quieter sleep. 
 
 At night Tresham goes to bed early, only desiring to 
 have Thomas to sit in the ante-chamber adjoining his 
 bed-room, and " plenty of light." Tresham never 
 could bear the dark. 
 
 When Mrs. Bird came to Helene's room that night 
 to light her little night-lamp, as she always did when 
 the girl went to rest, she began to discourse to her 
 about Tresham's illness. " Oh, Miss Helene, it 's all 
 the hard life he leads, nothin' else, depend upon it. 
 It 's drinkin' and sittin' up 0' nights."
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 From the moment when that little fainting fit occurred 
 to Tresham, a new phase might be said to have been 
 entered upon in the intercourse betwixt the uncle, the 
 nephew, and Helene. Though Sir Charles affected to 
 make light of the swoon, he was in reality nervous 
 about it. He was not sorry to have Helene by him in 
 case of a return. He suffered her, as we have seen, to 
 help him in the attentions he paid, and thus, as it were, 
 the hedge he had set up about the girl was totally 
 broken down. 
 
 Tresham spoke to Helene, Helene spoke to Tresham, 
 and no longer in studied phrase. 
 
 But there really had been nothing to fear. In that 
 week of absence Tresham had been sitting up too late, 
 and had been drinking too freely. His constitution was 
 not iron. It could not stand such appliances when 
 suffering also from the shock occasioned by the fall 
 in the steeple-chase. Had he been but commonly 
 prudent while sojourning at the " beastly inn," which, 
 however,' was a grand old-fashioned country hotel, he 
 had been well by now. 
 
 Three days after the day he fainted, he had so far 
 recovered as to declare himself fit and able to lounge
 
 144 O ur Little Gipsy. 
 
 about the garden. He accordingly sallied forth, lean- 
 ing on a bludgeon-like stick, his hat set jauntily on his 
 head. 
 
 And whither did he go ? His walk extended to the 
 lodge, and as Mrs. Bird informed Helene, he was 
 actually seen talking to that dressmaking girl. " And 
 after all I told him too. Who 'd 'a thought it ?" The 
 old dame shook her head, and looked her worst of 
 disapproval. 
 
 Eeader, you may be sure that Oiseau told the uncle 
 too of this last misdeed. 
 
 Day after day passed, young Daubigny was evidently 
 becoming convalescent, and every day Oiseau reported 
 to Helene that he was seen gossiping at the lodge. 
 
 Sir Charles, at any rate, knew of his nephew's un- 
 hallowed fancy now ; yes, and he solaced himself thus: 
 " Tresham must play the fool with some girl or woman, 
 and perhaps it is as well just now he has taken a fancy 
 to this creature at the lodge. If report says truth, 
 she cannot fall lower ; yes, he finds the higher game 
 so well preserved, he has no chance, and Marion Scott, 
 with her pretty face and slip-slop modish airs, may 
 serve to-day — to-morrow." 
 
 Sir Charles then was deluded, St. Louis was off 
 his guard, Mrs. Bird was quite scandalised at the young 
 fellow's audacity, and Helene, — oh, what are girls, or 
 such girls we mean as our Helene, who was indeed 
 as yet but a vain, a foolish child, — so Helene, 
 our Helene, though she would have blushed to own 
 as much, absolutely coveted the attentions Tresham 
 paid the low-born damsel at the lodge. Instead of
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 145 
 
 curing her of the infatuation that began to possess 
 her, Oiseau's daily reports but heightened and deepened 
 it. She no longer sought to avoid the tender mean- 
 ing glance Tresham was too apt to bestow. She 
 dressed with greater care ; she took more pains to 
 arrange her burnished golden-tinted hair ; the little 
 brown hands were more frequently encased in gloves ; 
 there was a touch of coquetry in her manner. Yes, 
 Helene now sought to allure, to win back that she 
 thought she had lost. She was no longer reserved to the 
 nephew, except when the eye of her Saint was upon her. 
 How young Daubigny was laughing in his sleeve ; 
 he had made, he had found his opportunity. " I shall 
 succeed even yet," mused he ; "I shall make her confess 
 before I go that I am love itself." 
 
 Poor Sir Charles ! how at every point, from an 
 excess of sensitiveness, was he wounded ! Tresham's 
 thrusting himself into Avonmore when Graham was 
 away, when the girl's father was unconscious there was 
 such an addition to the household, was a sore trial to 
 him. To permit the young fellow, as he now was 
 doing, to reside in the house with Helene, was almost 
 like abusing the trust her father had reposed in him. 
 When Tresham had shown himself only occasionally, 
 when he had slept always at the fishing- hut, there had 
 been no absolute necessity for Helene to mention in 
 her letters to her father that which they both knew 
 would be displeasing to him. But now that Tresham 
 for the time being was a resident at Avonmore, what 
 should be done ? 
 
 vol. 1. K
 
 146 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 "You are writing to your papa, Helene ?" inquired 
 Sir Charles one morning after Tresham had become so 
 far recovered as to take a daily walk in the garden. 
 
 " Yes/' answered the girl. 
 
 "Have you mentioned that my nephew had an 
 accident, and is at present domiciled here ?" 
 
 " It is just that I am considering about," replied the 
 girl ; and Sir Charles noticed that as she spoke a blush 
 or a brighter colour dyed her cheek. 
 
 "Then you have not mentioned that my nephew 
 is here?" 
 
 "No. Must I? Ought I? Might it not bring 
 papa back too soon ?" 
 
 "My dear child, I am troubled myself. Happily, 
 it cannot last long. Tresham tells me that he applied 
 to his Colonel for an extension of leave, but that he 
 refuses. Consequently this clay fortnight he must be 
 at Woolwich doing military duty. He tells me he will 
 have to leave here perhaps a week earlier, as he must 
 be at home first." 
 
 " I had not heard this," said Helene, looking down 
 and drawing her pen over the blotting-paper hap- 
 hazard. Then presently taking courage, she added, 
 " Then he is to be in this part of the world only one 
 week more ?" 
 
 " Only one week more," echoed Sir Charles. 
 
 Had the girl dared she had sighed — sighed deeply. 
 As it was, she sat resting her head on her hand with 
 her elbow on the table, pretending to be considering the 
 letter she was writing, but really, despite all that wisdom 
 or right feeling prompted, troubled and disturbed.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 147 
 
 " "Well," continued Sir Charles, now gazing upon her 
 with something of apprehension, " we were discussing 
 whether there was a necessity for mentioning to 
 your father that my nephew is here. I think myself 
 there is a necessity." 
 
 " I can say," murmured Helene, somewhat confusedly, 
 " yes, I can say that he is here, but that he leaves this 
 day week." 
 
 " Yes, that will do ; and you may add, if you like, 
 that he would not have been here but for an accident." 
 
 " Yes, I will write that," said Helene, and she did 
 write in this fashion. But ere she had directed her 
 letter, St. Louis and herself were surprised by the 
 sound of angry loud talking coming from the garden. 
 It seemed to be the voices of two people angrily 
 disputing. 
 
 " Surely," said Sir Charles, " that is Mrs. Bird's shrill 
 voice, but who can it be so angrily answering her?" 
 
 The girl finished directing her letter and then ran 
 forth to see. While she had been writing she had had 
 beside her a little basket, in which to carry gathered 
 flowers. She now went forth basket in hand. The 
 two voices had died away. All was silence now. She 
 could hear nothing, and so she went dreamily on her 
 way a-gathering rosebuds. She had gathered, perhaps, 
 a dozen, when the voice of Mrs. Bird, still in conten- 
 tion, sounded again. Yes, Helene could now catch 
 the words. " I will go to Sir Charles, that I will, Mr. 
 Tresham. You shall never use the poor thing this way." 
 
 "Do, you old hen-harrier. Go and tell him just 
 what you please," answered the heir-expectant.
 
 148 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 Mrs. Bird was now making towards the great flight 
 of steps at the principal entrance of the house, but, 
 seeing Helene, she turned aside and came to her. At 
 the same moment the girl became conscious that 
 Tresham was driving at a rapid pace Mrs. Bird's 
 donkey, he occupying the garden chair. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Helene!" cried the poor nurse, "I don't 
 want, if I can help, to make a disturbance ; I don't 
 want to go to my master. Can you interfere ? Can 
 you get the poor thing away ? He 's cut a point to a 
 stick, Miss, and declares if the beastly ass, as he calls 
 it, won't gallop, he '11 make it bleed." 
 
 " Oh, yes. Pray don't worry uncle Charles," for so 
 Helene now sometimes called her Saint. " I '11 see 
 what I can do." 
 
 On seeing the girl approach, Tresham pulled up the 
 poor frightened beast. 
 
 " I want you," she cried, all blushing and hurried, 
 " I want you to do me a favour, a great favour. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Will you give Oiseau her donkey now, this 
 minute ? That is the favour I ask." 
 
 " Will you do me a favour, a great favour ? " retorted 
 Tresham. 
 
 " What is it ? " inquired our Helene. 
 
 " Give me a red, red rosebud, and say, ' Tresham, for 
 my sake, keep it.' Do you know I must leave in one 
 short week ? Surely you will not refuse." 
 
 "You can get one from the young lady at the lodge," 
 cries Helene. 
 
 "From the young lady at the lodge !" echoes he with
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 149 
 
 a sneer. " Oh! I have no doubt of it; bushels of roses, 
 full-blown roses, for the asking. Why are you talk- 
 ing nonsense, Helene, now that we are alone? Give 
 me one now, this instant. Perhaps before another 
 minute is over your bird of wisdom, or the old hen- 
 harrier, may be down upon us." 
 
 " No," cried the girl, with a pettish air, " I do not 
 choose to give a rosebud to a person who knows no 
 distinction, who can find pleasure in talking to a low 
 creature." 
 
 " Helene," interrupted he, " do you really think it 
 possible I could care for such a thing as that at the 
 lodge ? But what have I to amuse me ? You are 
 everlastingly cooped up with your old owl. I scarce 
 dare speak to you. Tell me, answer me truly : Do 
 you not believe, are you not convinced, that you have 
 made a fool of me ? Never, never have I wished to be 
 quiet. Never has any girl touched my soul before. 
 Give me the rosebud. I swear it shall lie with me in 
 the grave." 
 
 " I dare not," murmured Helene, her heart beating 
 quicker than usual, her eyes cast down. " I dare not. 
 There is my own conscience, there is papa, there is 
 St. Louis. All, all would condemn me if I gave you 
 any token with a meaning in it. Oh ! vous n'etes pas 
 ce que vous devriez etre." 
 
 " I will have one," cried he. " I swear that I will. 
 I will goad the beast to death if you do not comply." 
 
 " Take it," cried the girl. " No, I will not give it 
 till you get out of the garden chair, — till I am in with 
 the reins in my own hands."
 
 150 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 "Well," answered lie, descending from the chair, 
 " get in ; take the reins." 
 
 The girl took Tresham's place. With one hand she 
 held the reins, with the other let fall upon the gravel 
 drive a bud of rosy red. 
 
 " Take it," she said, and her voice was sad. " Take 
 it, but know that I feel I am doing wrong." 
 
 St. Louis's troubles now came thick and fast upon 
 him. He had sought Avonmore as a haven of rest, but 
 he was doomed to find it anything but that. Mrs. Bird 
 one morning informed him that there had been a serious 
 quarrel in the village alehouse between the footman he 
 had brought down with him and one of the keepers ; 
 that the swasher and insolence of Thomas had drawn 
 upon him the enmity of others besides the keeper ; that 
 even the village children, as Thomas averred, had in- 
 sulted him. " He wants to go back, sir," continued 
 Mrs. Bird, " and says his fellow-servant James would be 
 as thankful to be at Avonmore for the remainder of 
 your stay as he would be to escape from it. He wishes 
 to speak to you himself, sir." 
 
 We should here remark that this discourse was de- 
 livered just as Sir Charles was descending to the 
 breakfast-room. Mrs. Bird had met her master on the 
 landing, and gave him this comforting piece of news on 
 his way down. On arriving at the breakfast-table, in 
 spite of Mrs. Bird's interruption of his progress thither, 
 he found, as he always wished it to be, that he was in 
 the room before his nephew, who, happily for the peace 
 of his uncle, had a taste for keeping late hours, and who
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 151 
 
 was apt to plead his present infirmity as an excuse for 
 his frequent irregularities. 
 
 This morning, however, before Helene had poured out 
 the second cup of tea for the uncle, the nephew appeared. 
 Thomas also appeared, but he did not at this early hour 
 attempt to intrude his wrongs upon Sir Charles. It was 
 not till about eleven o'clock that, tapping at the door, 
 Tummas requested an audience. 
 
 Tresham and Helene were both in the same apart- 
 ment as the master when Tummas asks and Sir Charles 
 grants him a hearing. 
 
 Tummas. — " If you please, sir, I wish to leave this 
 place, sir, as soon as suits your convenience ; not 
 your service, sir, but I really can't abide such treatment 
 anyhow." 
 
 " You have been falling out with the people in the 
 village, I hear." 
 
 Tummas. — " No, sir ; it wan't me as fell out. 'Twas 
 they, sir, as fell upon me, sir. It 's all them, sir," says 
 Tummas, putting his hand pathetically on his scarlet 
 plush breeches ; "it's all them legs, sir, as does it." 
 
 Helene and Tresham, seated together at the far end of 
 the great room, heeded the discourse going on betwixt 
 Tummas and his master but little. They were talking 
 the nonsense of children. 
 
 " Is he complaining of his legs ?" asked Helene of her 
 companion. " It 's only the old style, and I am sure it 
 was a prettier one. Now, your coat is spoiled by the rest 
 of your dress not matching. I wonder," said the girl 
 laughing, " that Oiseau did not attire you in the whole 
 suit, le veste et les demi- culottes."
 
 152 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Are there sucli things ? " asked Tresham. 
 
 " Yes ; I have seen the complete suit. And there are 
 lovely dresses, too, some of the ladies of that time wore. 
 I used to dress up when I first came. Sometimes, nay," 
 she said laughing, " I remember not long ago — " 
 
 " I wish you would let me see you dressed up," cries 
 Tresham, gazing upon the girl. 
 
 " I wish you would let me see you dressed up," echoed 
 Helene. 
 
 " First catch your fish. Pray, how am I to get any- 
 thing out of that old hen-harrier ? She 's ready, beak 
 and claws." 
 
 " I can get them," says the girl ; " but what then ?" 
 
 " I '11 put them on. But what then ? Will you pro- 
 mise to array yourself too ? Will you come forth in a 
 suit to match ? " 
 
 "We should be just like the china figures I've 
 seen abroad," murmurs the girl ; " ornaments. Don't 
 you know a pair that match ?" 
 
 " We need not be quite so rigid, nor quite so cold, I 
 opine," whispers Tresham. 
 
 " Oh yes, we must be quite as rigid, quite as cold. If 
 you are not going to be like a china image I '11 have 
 nothing to do with it." 
 
 " Well, I promise." 
 
 " You promise on your honour to be quite still." 
 
 " On my honour." 
 
 " Well, then, I will lay in the corridor just by your 
 room the demi-culottes and the embroidered veste. But 
 stay," cries the girl, " where are the silk stockings and 
 the shoes?"
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 153 
 
 " Oh, this extravagant old fellow here, this uncle of 
 mine indulges in silk stockings. I really believe he 
 always lives in silk stockings. I '11 go into his room 
 and seize a pair for the occasion. For the shoes, Thomas 
 brought me an absurd pair of French high-heeled 
 slippers, which he said master's man packed up always, 
 but which master never wore." 
 
 " Well, then," whispers the girl, " you 're all right." 
 
 " Rot a bit of it. Didn't these swells wear powder 
 and ruffles ? " 
 
 " Ah, oui, certainement. The powder I can give you. 
 I '11 put a little box of powder with the clothes." 
 
 " Powder me, there 's a sweet ; now, only powder me," 
 imploringly asks Tresham. 
 
 " Speak in that tone, look in that manner once again, 
 and I am off the bargain. C'est une chose fini." 
 
 " There now, be tranquil." 
 
 Uncle Charles at this moment drew too near for 
 further discourse betwixt the nephew and his proUgde. 
 Tummas and he, however, were still discussing the 
 knotty point. 
 
 Tummas. — "James, sir, 's a- dying for country hair, 
 and I, sir, am a-longing, with your leave, sir, to be 
 back in town." 
 
 Uncle Charles. — " After all, it seems to me that a pair 
 of plain trousers instead of these scarlet things would 
 be the easiest course ; you could not be remarked upon 
 then." 
 
 Tummas. — " Yes, sir, but there 's never a tailor." 
 
 Uncle Charles. — " You're quite mistaken ; the village 
 schoolmaster was a tailor by trade. He is quite com-
 
 154 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 petent to make you a pair of plain trousers. Mrs. Bird 
 has employed him. He does very well." 
 
 Tummas. — "For them chaw-bacons, sir. no doubt, but 
 I don't think, — I beg pardon, — but the fact is, sir, I 
 must beg to decline ; them legs " (putting his hands 
 pathetically on his breeches), "them legs, sir, has 
 never known the 'andling of a village snip." 
 
 " You are a provoking fool," cries Sir Charles, turn- 
 ing away, " and the sooner we part the better. I will 
 write for James .myself, or, what is better, I can do 
 without one of your paltry breed." 
 
 Tummas. — " I beg a thousand pardons, sir, and as for 
 poor Jeames, sir, he 's a- dying for country hair. He 's 
 country-bred, sir, and I am but a town-mouse, sir. 
 May be you '11 think better on it, sir." 
 
 "Uncle Charles," cries Tresham, hearing his uncle's 
 angry exclamation, " uncle Charles, I say, are you in 
 a rage? Does the flunkey want caning? Does he 
 want sticking ? Shall I come and run him through 
 the liver ?" 
 
 "Keep your folly for those who value it," retorts 
 the uncle, glancing as he spoke at Helene, whose 
 gravity had now wholly deserted her, and who, 
 laughing like a child, looked fearfully lovely and 
 mischievous. 
 
 Tresham made no reply to his uncle; he was ap- 
 parently searching for his gloves, which he protested 
 he had just before placed on the work-table by which 
 Helene had been sitting. He next went out of the 
 room, only to return exclaiming, " They 're nowhere in 
 the hall, they must be under your things," routing
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 155 
 
 about till he managed to slip under Helene's hand a 
 piece of paper, on which he had written thus : — 
 
 " I shall enter the drawing-room with the tea dressed 
 en masquerade. You will not fail to greet me at the 
 same moment en costume. We -hall be a pair." And 
 the girl read the paper, and, looking up, caught 
 Treshaui's eye, and nodded her head silently, but with 
 a meaning glance, in reply. 
 
 "When Helene quitted the table after dinner, Tresham 
 presently also disappeared. Sir Charles, always in dread 
 of his nephew, remained in the dining-room scarcely 
 ten minutes longer. He went into the library, which 
 was now used at tea-time; the library, however, had 
 no tenants, and Sir Charles felt uneasy lest the twain 
 he sought might be closeted somewhere, or might be 
 strolling together in the garden or the park. He went 
 out and looked in every likely nook, but his search was 
 vain. He sought the vast half- furnished drawing- 
 room and the picture gallery with like success. 
 
 The shadows of the summer eve were deepening, the 
 mist on the lawn was rising, the clouds overhead were 
 dark and heavy. Ee- entering the library, our un- 
 fortunate master encountered Tummas bearing the tea- 
 tray, and this brought back to his mind the unpleasant 
 discourse he had had with the presumptuous fool in the 
 morning. Xext Tummas appeared bearing on a waiter 
 the silver kettle and spirit lamp. Ere he had set his 
 burden down, he very nearly upset the whole, for, turning 
 his eyes towards the door, which at this moment was 
 thrown open, he beheld a spectacle of which he had
 
 i 56 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 never seen the like. Tresham, arrayed in the salmon- 
 coloured suit, his dandified legs incased in our Saint's 
 silk stockings, his well-shaped feet in the Saint's 
 Parisian high-heeled slippers, his hair in powder, and, 
 closely following, Mademoiselle Helene in stomacher, 
 hoop, and train, her hair also in powder. 
 
 At the clumsiness of Tummas, Sir Charles, who hated 
 clumsiness, raised his eyes ; and then his eyes took in 
 the pair approaching him en masquerade. Tummas 
 was forgotten in this more serious subject of irritation. 
 "Helene!" exclaimed he, "Helene, how can you act 
 with such extreme levity ! I have been seeking you in 
 vain for the last hour. Tell me, where have you been ? 
 What have you been about ?" 
 
 "Dressing up ; it takes a long time. I went straight 
 from the dinner-table to my bed-room, and I have 
 come straight from my bed-room here." 
 
 " And pray, may I ask, did you suggest this double 
 folly?" 
 
 "Well, scarcely, mais oui, moi. Yes, when you and 
 Thomas were talking about his legs, I said that that 
 costume was only the old style (blushing). I did say 
 there were demi -culottes and veste to match the coat 
 Mr. Daubigny had on." 
 
 " And pray, who found these articles ? Who powdered 
 my nephew's head?" 
 
 " I found them ; I laid them at his door ; but he 
 powdered himself." 
 
 Tresham here burst into an irrepressible fit of laughter, 
 which only added to his uncle's wrath. 
 
 " Will it take you as long, Miss Graham, to undress
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 157 
 
 as it did to dress, pray? For I will not touch the 
 tea; you shall not make the tea while you are en 
 masquerade." 
 
 " Oh ! pray don't be angry. Didn't I tell jow, 
 Mr. Daubigny, that we were to be only like a pair 
 of china figures ? Didn't I say we were to be as 
 cold and as rigid ? Didn't you give me your word of 
 honour?" 
 
 " I did ; and am I not keeping my word ?" 
 
 " Because you cannot he]p yourself, sir, I presume," 
 broke from the martyr. " Go, Helene, and dispose of 
 your folly." 
 
 "Oh, sir," remonstrated the girl, "do not be so 
 unnecessarily displeased;" and throwing herself on her 
 knees before her guardian angel, and taking his reluctant 
 hand, she added, " Forgive me now ; let me only put 
 the tea into the tea-pot ; just wait that time," and 
 theatrically she pressed her lips to the pale thin hand. 
 
 "Why don't you remain rigid and cold with uncle 
 Charles, I say? Where's your rigidity now, eh?" 
 cries Tresham angrily. 
 
 " I never said I 'd be rigid and cold with him, there 's 
 no occasion. He always takes care of me ; he is an 
 angeL" 
 
 St. Louis, despite his previous displeasure, evidently 
 felt flattered. " Helene, do not speak in this way, my 
 love," he murmured ; "I do not, but others may mis- 
 understand you." 
 
 " I happen to be one of those others," cries Tresham. 
 " I see no more reason why she should kiss your hand 
 than mine."
 
 158 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Then I see a thousand reasons," retorted the girl. 
 " You are all mischief and wrong ; he is all truth and 
 good." 
 
 " It 's a pity you don't go to Heaven together at 
 once," cries Tresham, stalking out of the room with an 
 angry frown on his brow.
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 We have seen that Tresham left the room when 
 Helene was kneeling before St. Louis. We have said 
 that he left the room in evident ill-humour. The fact 
 was, incredible as it may appear, Tresham had really 
 fallen in love, and was jealous of the intimacy, the 
 affection that existed between the " bird of wisdom " 
 and the young girl. His passion had entirely, for the 
 moment, extinguished his discretion, and he was ready 
 to be right down offensive to his uncle. A night of 
 wakefulness did not tend to sober him, and he came 
 down to breakfast next morning silent, gloomy, nay, 
 almost morose. He had been spoiled and petted all 
 his young life, and he could not bear interference, 
 especially in a case like this. Sir Charles, on account 
 of the last evening's demonstration, exercised more 
 vigilance than of late had been his custom. He would 
 give his nephew no possible opportunity of discoursing 
 with Helene privately. Perhaps this extreme caution 
 on the part of the uncle added to the nephew's 
 irritability. Perhaps Helene's obedience and attention 
 to St. Louis added to the younger man's wrath and 
 jealousy. At all events, by dinner-time he was so 
 disgusted, so irritated, he felt up to anything. Helene,
 
 :6o Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 coquettish by nature, and gratified by the moroseness 
 of her young lover, a moroseness of which she guessed 
 the cause, perhaps inadvertently provoked him further. 
 
 As she quitted the table after dinner, playfully, yet 
 tenderly, she said to St. Louis, " You will not be long- 
 before you come to me, will you ? I promise to be 
 very good to-night." Then glancing at Tresham, who 
 rose to open the door to her, she bestowed upon him a 
 little curtsy and a provoking glance. 
 
 The girl had not been gone a quarter of an hour 
 when the pent-up storm broke forth. 
 
 " I have been here, on and off, for a very considerable 
 time," remarked Tresham to his uncle, " and I am still 
 quite in the dark, sir, as to the nature of your connec- 
 tion with Miss Graham. If it were not for your age 
 and infirmity, I should positively begin to think that 
 you intended marrying her ; but I admit that such an 
 act of folly is scarcely to be expected in a man of your 
 years and discretion. You must pardon me for my 
 freedom, but the only other feasible solution of the 
 mystery that occurs to me is, that the girl may be your 
 natural daughter. Tell me," added the nephew, " for I 
 have a right to know, does she, or might she claim 
 you as a parent ? I have only to add, that if you 
 do not mean to marry her, and if you are not her 
 father, your conduct in relation to her is anything but 
 creditable." 
 
 Imagine the effect this attack must have had on Sir 
 Charles, sensitive to the highest degree, delicate in 
 all his perceptions as he was. For a few seconds he 
 could not answer, and when he did reply, the fierce
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 161 
 
 anger that had been kindled in his soul gave to his 
 countenance a dignity, a spirit that Tresharn had never 
 seen there before. 
 
 "You are so steeped in sin, in guile yourself," he 
 cried, " that you see evil in everything. The innocence 
 of the girl, in your eyes, is doubtless craft, design. As 
 to Helene being my daughter, that infamous imagina- 
 tion I shall not attempt to answer. I am certain you 
 have no such idea." 
 
 " That is not true, sir ; I have such an idea." 
 
 ''You coolly accuse me of being the most accom- 
 plished of hypocrites." 
 
 " I accuse you, — yes, I declare it again, — of either 
 loving her as an old man like you ought not to love 
 her, or else I accuse you of having had, like thousands 
 of other men, some intrigue of which she is the living- 
 witness. Are you, sir, immaculate? Will you say 
 that you are of a virtue, of a heroism above the royal 
 psalmist ? Did not he look on Bathsheba — " 
 
 " I say you lie," cried Sir Charles, now fiercely rising. 
 " Leave the room ; — leave my house this night." 
 
 " Oh, certainly. I am ready. But remember, I go 
 with an unshaken conviction," and Tresharn quitted 
 the room, leaving Sir Charles in an agony of wretched- 
 ness — a wretchedness made up of so many items that 
 we cannot fairly describe it. pL+% u^tb^-~?LZ±^X *X '• f/>+*L 1<lcJc 
 
 We can, however, say this much ; the mental strain 
 was so intense, that the weakness, the delicacy of the 
 flesh sank in the conflict. A faintness he could scarce 
 struggle against seemed as though it would overmaster 
 him. He threw open the window, then, as another 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 1 6 2 Our L title Gipsy. 
 
 remedy, with trembling hand he poured out some wine. 
 He drank it. Yes, he was better. He repeated the dose 
 of wine, and presently he was a martyr to the headache. 
 
 But for the present we must leave our poor baronet 
 in the dining-room and seek Helene in the library. 
 
 " Where is your uncle ? " asked the girl, when 
 Tresham entered the room alone, and took up a 
 position close, almost too near to her. 
 
 " He is in the sulks." 
 
 " In the sulks ? What does that mean ? That he is 
 angry ? That you have offended him ?" 
 
 " It does." 
 
 " And how came you to be so thoughtless ? Why 
 have you made him angry V 
 
 " Ask me rather why I have not made him angry 
 before." 
 
 " Why, you are always annoying him." 
 
 " Not as I have annoyed him now. I have driven 
 the nail a little deeper in, I hope — nailed him to the 
 wall for the next hour." 
 
 " You cannot have a good heart, or you would surely 
 strive — " 
 
 " I tell you," cried Tresham, interrupting the girl, 
 in accents impassioned and new to her, " I tell 
 you I wanted to offend him. I am angry, and I have 
 every reason to be so. Can you point out the day, the 
 hour, when he has voluntarily left me alone with you ? 
 Has he not watched over me like a lynx ?" 
 
 "Well, what matters ?" 
 
 "Oh, I dare say not at all to you, of course, it 
 matters nothing. In fact, Miss Graham, I begin to
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 16 
 
 j 
 
 imagine the tenderness I observe betwixt my uncle 
 and yourself is verging on passion." 
 
 "What can you mean?" cried the girl, an angry 
 colour mounting to her brow. " Never was affection so 
 free from wrong as ours ; if I have any good in me I 
 owe it to his teaching." 
 
 "And you are ready to declare to me that you are 
 not in love with the old mummy?" 
 
 " I declare," murmured Helene, " that our love is 
 only such as the angels in heaven might feel." 
 
 Young Daubigny gazed steadfastly on the girl as she 
 spoke. There was such a halo of truth, of sincerity, 
 in her beautiful but Gipsy-like countenance he could 
 not doubt. " My soul," continued he, " is scarce 
 lightened of one apprehension ere it grows heavy with 
 another. Tell me, is there no hidden secret, is there 
 no form, no vision of some absent person rises in your 
 dreams ? Can you be thus lovely, thus precocious, and 
 never yet have tasted earthly love ? " 
 
 " No," answered Helene with a little embarrassment, 
 a little laugh, " no, I have never tasted of such dainty 
 fare." 
 
 "Will you dare to tell me that you have never 
 sinned this way, even in thought ?" 
 
 " No, no indeed." 
 
 " Tell me," he continued, still gazing upon her, " tell 
 me, has never the sound of a voice, the sound of a 
 footstep, waked sensation ? Oh that my voice, my 
 step, might weaken feeling ! Your step, Helene, your 
 voice, sends a thrill of feeling right through my very 
 being. You are silent, but you do not absolutely deny,"
 
 164 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 he added, his ardent gaze searching her embarrassed 
 and blushing face. The girl's confusion, occasioned by 
 varied and conflicting feelings, was great, and turning 
 from him, she silently walked some steps away. Scarce 
 had she moved when hurriedly he followed. " They 
 say," cried he in accents wild and impassioned, " they 
 say that infection is engendered by a touch." He 
 seized, he pressed her hand. " Fain would I pour into 
 your soul the passion that has overmastered mine;" 
 and before she could evade or avoid him, his arms 
 were around her, she was locked in his embrace, his 
 lips had touched her own. 
 
 An indignant cry escaped the girl as she struggled 
 to be free and released from his grasp ; indignant words, 
 nay, tears of anger, poured forth too. " Is it thus," 
 she cried, " you seek to win me ? You do not under- 
 stand. You may have practised successfully such 
 measures with the low-born, the base, the mean ; such 
 creatures might value the insult you have offered, but 
 know, sir, that I am none of these. I claim to be — " 
 But here our poor Helene paused. She must not betray 
 her absent father ; she must not tell that through him 
 she descended from a Scottish king ; she must not say, 
 " My mother was a Vane." 
 
 She sank down in a great leathern chair, and cover- 
 ing her face with her hand, the elbow resting on the 
 chair's great arm, she wept almost like a child. But 
 soon, very soon, she rose, intending to quit the room, 
 but the audacious Daubigny, seeing her footsteps tend 
 towards the door, placed his back against it, and thus 
 barred her passage.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 165 
 
 " Let me go out instantly — instantly," cried Helene. 
 
 " I will not," lie retorted, " not until I have told you 
 that, angry as you are, I cannot be sorry for my tres- 
 pass. In that kiss was concentrated a rapture, the 
 memory of which will remain with me through all the 
 evil years to come. Helene," he continued, in tones 
 deep and mournful, "Helene, I have played the fool 
 with many women, but you are the first, the only girl 
 I ever loved." 
 
 " I thank you," cried Helene, " for this your last 
 favour, this act of confidence. Oh ! " she exclaimed, " I 
 will never believe one word that you utter ; I have 
 heard, I have been warned." 
 
 " You have been told, no doubt, that I am a very 
 devil ; it matters little, I have but a few more days to 
 be here. We part, Helene, never to meet again. I feel 
 that you might have reclaimed me, I feel that you 
 might have made me fitter for the destiny that Heaven 
 has appointed, but I know that it cannot be." 
 
 " Some one is at the door," cried the girl. 
 
 " I hear nothing. Ce n'est qu'une petite ruse ; mais 
 Je suis ici, J'y reste." 
 
 There was, however, a knock for admittance ; there 
 had been one before. 
 
 Eeckless as the young fellow was, he dared bar the 
 girl's passage no longer. He opened the door and Mrs. 
 Bird entered. 
 
 " Oh, it is you," he cried, with an affectation of play- 
 fulness in his manner, " it is you ; and pray, what has 
 brought you here ? Have you come to look after the 
 child ? Have you brought her pinafore ? Have you
 
 1 66 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 come to take her off to bed ? Will you extend your 
 care to me too ? Will you take us both into the nursery, 
 — make twins of us ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir," answered Mrs. Bird, " you 're quite past 
 me, sir ; I don't really understand. I came about my 
 master, who was indeed once my nursling." 
 
 " Lord, Mrs. Bird, are you then old as Methuselah ? 
 Imagine my uncle a child ! Why, I look upon him as a 
 hundred at least. " 
 
 "And wish he was so, eh, sir?" shrewishly asked 
 the nurse, and without waiting for a reply from 
 Tresham she addressed herself to Helene, " I came for 
 a cup of tea for Sir Charles ; will you pour me one 
 out ? He has a bad headache, and sent Thomas to me 
 for the hartshorn." 
 
 " Oh, the tea 's icy cold," cried the nephew, pretend- 
 ing to feel the tea-pot ; " you 'd better go and make him 
 some fresh." 
 
 " Perhaps I 'd better," answered Oiseau ; " but, Miss 
 Helene, you will come with me and pour it out for my 
 master ; I know that it will please him. He is still in 
 the dining-room." 
 
 "Let me just go and fetch something I left in my 
 bed-room and then I will come," answered the girl, 
 conscious that her hair might be somewhat disarranged 
 by the embrace she had endured, besides which she 
 felt a certain degree of agitation. 
 
 Helene's hair was in some disorder, and Mrs. Bird's 
 piercing eyes had not failed to detect this, and that she 
 looked as though she had been crying. In a moment 
 the shrewd old dame coupled these appearances with
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 167 
 
 the obstruction at the door, and she mentally determined 
 that Mr. Tresham had been in mischief. 
 
 Happy had it been for the girl if at once she had 
 made a confidant of the old nurse, and had revealed to 
 her the sinner's trespass. But, on the contrary, for 
 some reason we cannot explain, she went to her room 
 without saying a word, smoothed her ruffled hair, and 
 endeavoured, on descending to the dining-room, to 
 appear as though Tresham had committed none. 
 
 "Is he gone?" was the martyr's first question after 
 she had begun to pour out his tea. 
 
 " I really do not know," answered Helene. " Oiseau 
 tells me," she added somewhat hurriedly, " that you 
 have a headache." 
 
 " Yes, and I have the heartache too. That unfortu- 
 nate boy will some day finish me, I believe. I suffered 
 myself to grow angry— I was more than angry. I am 
 indeed excessively offended. He has deliberately 
 insulted me. I desired him to leave the room — 
 I bade him leave the house to-night. Why are 
 you trembling? Helene, your hand is trembling as 
 you hold my cup." 
 
 " No wonder," answered the girl, " when I hear of 
 such quarrelling. You must have been more angry 
 than I could have believed possible." 
 
 " Ah, my love, you have only seen the sunshine of 
 my nature. It is capable of storm. I was once, ere I 
 strove so very hard to conquer the defect, a very pas- 
 sionate man." 
 
 "Then," murmured the girl, kneeling before him, 
 " when I christened you St. Louis I was right. Tell
 
 1 68 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 me," she continued, " will you be quite one now, and 
 forgive Tresham?" 
 
 " No," answered Sir Charles, starting up, and exhibit- 
 ing to the girl a countenance suddenly flushed and 
 excited, " I will not forgive him ; that is to say, I 
 will not overlook his offence. I will not see him if 
 he stay." 
 
 Startled, grieved, astonished, the girl rose and sat in 
 trembling silence. She believed she should never see 
 Tresham Daubigny again. 
 
 Perhaps some young girl who reads Helen e's story 
 may be able to imagine how she felt this evening. 
 
 Love comes at what day, at what hour ? Know we 
 exactly when ? No, it steals upon us ; it is present, it 
 is influencing us ere we are conscious of its existence. 
 Helene had that sort of love for Tresham that is as 
 impossible to define as to account for. She knew him 
 to be worthless. She knew that he might be faithless, 
 yet he had waked in her being, in her heart, that first 
 blind love which is, as it were, a tribute nature exacts. 
 She might struggle to conceal, she might eventually 
 conquer it ; but evermore memory would retain young 
 Daubigny's image ; evermore memory would recall the 
 blush that rose, the little tremulousness his coming near 
 produced, the soft delight that reason bade her disavow 
 even to herself. And so all this evening she sat chill 
 and drooping, under the blast that had, as she believed, 
 swept Tresham for ever from her sight. 
 
 Sir Charles was suffering so terribly from nervous 
 headache, and he was still so troubled, so indignant,
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 169 
 
 that he did not notice so much as he would have done 
 in a calmer moment the girl's pale cheek and drooping 
 attitude. At ten o'clock he left the room and went up- 
 stairs to bed. Helene waited scarce a minute after his 
 departure. How glad she was to reach the door of the 
 great chamber she called her own ! 
 
 It was Mrs. Bird's custom of a night to meet Helene 
 when she heard her in the corridor, and come to her 
 room for a minute or two to see that her little night- 
 lamp was ready, and that she had all she might require. 
 But on this occasion Helene told her not to come with 
 her, but to go and see after Sir Charles. They both 
 knew that Thomas was offensive to the master, and his 
 valet, his valet of pretension, had been left in London. 
 
 Safe from observation, the girl threw herself on to 
 the bed and gave way to the tears that were a relief to 
 her burdened spirit. Half an hour might have passed, 
 not in weeping, for our Helene was not given to long 
 fits of weeping. She soon had driven away her tears, 
 but she could not conquer thought. So that still there 
 she lay on the outside of the bed, not even thinking of 
 undressing, when a gentle tap sounds at her door. 
 " It is Oiseau," conjectures Helene, and however much 
 a nuisance her presence just now would be, she felt 
 obliged to say, " Come in." 
 
 On permission being granted, the door was opened, 
 but only a very little, and the voice she had thought to 
 have heard no more murmured, " I suppose I must not, 
 but will you take this note ?" 
 
 "You, Tresham!" exclaimed the girl. "Oh, pray 
 go away. You must not come to my room, at this
 
 170 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 time of night too. I thought you had gone — I thought 
 that you had gone for ever." 
 
 " I only ask you to take this," he answered. 
 
 Helene went to the door and held out her hand. He 
 seized the hand, and pressed it tenderly, passionately. 
 
 " This, then," said she, " is our last meeting." 
 
 " That depends upon yourself." 
 
 " I thought," she said again, " that you had gone." 
 
 " Well, I did go — I was driven in the dog- cart ; but 
 I had scarcely entered the fishing-hut when I began to 
 think over our last interview. I began to regret that 
 I had taken the liberty I did. I determined to return, 
 and myself, if possible, deliver a note." 
 
 "Hush !" whispered Helene, " surely I hear a sound. 
 Pray go." 
 
 " Only promise not to refuse the request contained 
 in my note, and I am gone." 
 
 " I will see," she murmured, " only go. Good 
 night," and Helene, in fear and trembling lest there 
 had been a witness of Tresham's apparition, closed 
 her door. 
 
 The note was one such as very young and very im- 
 passioned lovers write. Of course the request he had 
 alluded to was the real subject, the pith of the composi- 
 tion. He begged that the girl would come down to the 
 river's side at eleven, or half-past eleven, next morning, 
 and speak to him. "I promise," he said, " not even to set 
 my foot on Avonmore. I will remain rigid as you can 
 desire in the bo^t on the cold waters. I only ask you 
 to stand on the river's side amid the rocks, and speak 
 a few kind words to me. I name eleven o'clock, because
 
 Our Little Gipsy. i 7 1 
 
 I know my uncle Charles is usually engaged writing 
 letters then." 
 
 Oh, what a trouble was this request to Helene ! 
 What would it cost her to grant it ! What would she 
 have mentally to endure if she refused it ! To go, 
 secretly, stealthily, and meet the sinner, was it not 
 acting a falsehood? But new-born passion pleaded. 
 What a tempest-tossed heart, and conscience distinctly 
 and constantly uttering reproach !
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Unsullied broke the summer dawn; no mist arose, 
 no cloud stole o'er to dim the morning's beauty. The 
 eastern sky was all one vivid golden glory, and the 
 morning's glory now was shed upon the river's eastern 
 side, where rose vast rocks all bare and hoary. But 
 amid these hoary rocks were interstices, hollows, dim 
 and deep, wherein the leafy soil had drifted. The 
 hand of man, so seldom idle, here intruded not to add 
 to or destroy. Hence nature's soil was clad with nature's 
 loveliest vegetation. Like the green islets that one 
 reads of in the desert were these oft-recurring crevices 
 of verdure betwixt the bare and hoary rocks. Some of 
 these chasms were emerald green. Clothed they were 
 with nature's pensive and retiring treasures ; lined 
 they were with masses of wood, sorrel-creeping mosses, 
 and low- growing ferns. From others of these inter- 
 stices, from those more deep, more dim, arose in 
 mightiest form and in majestic grace the green and 
 glossy leaves of hart's-tongue. 
 
 And there were islets, too, amid our hoary rocks, 
 where the joyous sunlight strove and played. These 
 now were gay with bright pink ragged robin, blue 
 forget-me-not, and large white daisies ; and from this
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 173 
 
 pretty field of flowers emerged to twine about the 
 rugged rock the stems of honeysuckle, laden now 
 these twining stems with their rich freight of gold and 
 pinkish blossoms. Oh, what masses of sweet beauty, 
 scenting all the morning air ! 
 
 And ever and anon, above the river, drooped the 
 mountain ash, the silver birch. These trees, rooted 
 in the rock's dark crevices, seemed sustained as by a 
 mystery, they seemed to have so little soil wherein to 
 find support. In strange wild grace, at intervals they 
 hung across the river, their pliant boughs touching the 
 tall green rushes at the river's side. 
 
 We must not, however, linger in this scene of 
 nature's wildest loveliness, but hasten to the outer 
 circle of lawn adjoining the park, — to that portion of 
 the garden at Avonmore left a little rude, a little wild, 
 — to the strip or circle of lawn that could be kept 
 sufficiently in order by less skilful hands than those 
 of the several resident gardeners. On this now were 
 at work two lads. I call them lads because they were 
 not boys in appearance, and yet they had scarce 
 attained to the age of manhood. They were not con- 
 stantly employed at Avonmore, but had been picked 
 up to assist in the summer's extra work. From early 
 dawn had these two poor stray lads been a-mowing, 
 and their labour nearly completed, they were about to 
 decamp, bent on breaking their long fast and having a 
 rest. No home had either lad to go to. They were 
 strangers in the village. Their resting-place must be 
 a shady bench beside the ale-house door, their fare a 
 lump of bread, a slice of bacon or of cheese, and a half-
 
 174 O ur Little Gipsy. 
 
 pint of beer. The younger fellow of the two might 
 have been termed handsome but for the hard life he 
 had led. That had done much to efface the inherent 
 delicacy of the image God had set up. Yet, despite 
 of hardship, ill-treatment, starvation almost pending, 
 there remained in Archie's features an inextinguish- 
 able beauty. He was tall and well-proportioned even 
 to his hands and feet, and in every movement was an 
 agile dexterity that, had he been reared tenderly, had 
 been an agile grace. His cap was set jauntily on his 
 head, and, however shabby his attire, there was a 
 something in himself that defied his very rags. Sud- 
 denly he pauses in his last labour of wheeling away 
 the barrow filled with the new-mown grass. He is 
 listening to the chime of the great outdoor clock, 
 which is telling the Avonmore household, the Avon- 
 more villagers, that it wants a quarter to seven. 
 
 " I declare, Bill," says he, wiping his damp brow 
 as he speaks, " I declare it ain't our reg'lar time yet. 
 It wants a quarter to seven. My lips is all a-fire, and 
 my stomach 's empty as a drum. I don't know hardly 
 which is worst — to be a-fasting of a-mornin' a-mowing, 
 or to be all the a'ternoon a-hoein', as I was yesterday, 
 without a leaf to shadow me till the blessed e'en. 
 Sure, we poor are born but to be cursed. That 's, at 
 least, how I take it." 
 
 " That 's how ye fain 'ud make it," answered the 
 other. " Archie, we brings curses on ourselves. Ye 
 know," he added, pausing in his labour, and gazing on 
 his companion, "ye know ye 're an idle dog. Now, 
 ain't ye ?"
 
 Oar Littk Gipsy. 175 
 
 "Idle!" cries Archie, "don't I earn every penny- 
 worth of bread I eat ? Ain't I ben a-scorched this 
 summer a-hoein', scorched till I were dry as the dust 
 itsel'? Ain't I brown as any gluver's leather? What 
 would ye have more of me ? I swear, as I was a- 
 hoein' yesterday, my blessed head a-spun round like 
 any top. Idle or no idle, I 'm not a-goin to work no 
 more th is day." 
 
 "Not a-goin' to work no more this day?" echoed his 
 friend in a voice of astonishment. 
 
 " No ; at any rate, not till the heat ha' past a leetle. 
 I ha' made up my mind to it, so it 's no use a-plaguing 
 me. I shall just go, Bill, and lay me down among 
 them tall rushes as grows by the river yonder." 
 
 "You're not £roin' a-fishin', Archie ?" asked his wiser 
 or more timid companion ; " 'cause, yer know, it 's 
 forbid. The stream ain't free." 
 
 " Who the devil 'ull know," asked Archie, " whether 
 I 'm a-fishin' or no ? I 'm not a-goin' in a place where 
 any eyes can see me. What with them rocks and the 
 rushes — " 
 
 " When peoples does wrong, they 's often found out 
 marvellous like. Ye'd better not go among them 
 rushes at all." 
 
 " I tell ye I shall" answers Archie. " Bother ye," 
 and the lad broke out in a voice of ringing clear 
 melody : — 
 
 " ' Green grow the rashes, ! 
 Green grow the rashes, ! 
 The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 
 Are spent amang the lasses, 0.'"
 
 1 76 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Where picked ye up that snatch 0' song ?" inquired 
 Bill. 
 
 " My grandfather used to sing it. He was a Scotch- 
 man, and he were ever a-comin' out wi' sumniut that 
 told his thoughts were in his ' ain bonnie land/ as he 
 ca'd it. And my old grandam were ever a-chidin' him 
 for 't ; — summut he 'd done as were bad when he were 
 a youngster, and that had brought him doun, and me 
 too, ye see. Never mind, I '11 sing as well as he — 
 
 " ' Green grow the rashes, ! 
 Green grow the rashes, ! '" 
 
 Leaving these two poor lads to pursue their way 
 towards the bench beside the village ale-house door, 
 I must now endeavour to place distinctly before the 
 mind of my reader some particular portions of the 
 exterior of the mansion at Avonmore. I have said 
 that the style of the building is Italian, that the house 
 is on a large grand scale, but that there is little or 
 nothing of the picturesque about it. Imagine, then, a 
 superbly ornamented portico in the centre, a palace- 
 like flight of steps leading up to this, the principal 
 entrance of the house. Imagine a range of lofty but 
 rather narrow windows on either side of the portico, 
 another range of windows above almost as lofty, a 
 smaller set of windows peeping out from under the 
 Italian-looking roof, and you have the front view of 
 Avonmore. The back view of the house we need not 
 describe, it was a mere match in regularity and style 
 to the front. But the two side views of Avonmore, 
 facing east and west, though perhaps not to be deno-
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 177 
 
 urinated actually picturesque, yet presented a decided 
 variation from the uniformity of style prevailing in the 
 principal portions of the mansion. The front and the 
 back of the edifice were merely copied from an Italian 
 villa of renown, but the two sides were arranged 
 according to the fancy of the English architect who had 
 directed and presided during its erection, and the eye 
 rested with a sense of relief on the irregularities which 
 that fancy had been permitted to perpetuate. On the 
 western side rose high above the roof an ornamental 
 clock and bell-tower, and very light and elegant were 
 its proportions. On the front of this tower was the 
 fine old clock to whose chimes the poor lad just now 
 was listening. In it hung a silvery-toned bell that, 
 until sporting Tom decamped, had called the numerous 
 household to prayers and to meals. We shall not go 
 into wearying particulars of window and roof, but carry 
 our reader at once to a part of the dwelling on its 
 eastern side which, alas for my heroine ! is painfully 
 connected with her story. Here, then, projected out 
 on to the lawn an orangery. It is of the same age or 
 date as the mansion itself, and had been constructed, 
 as I have seen some other old houses reared about 
 that period for the growth and protection of orange- 
 trees, with a flat roof covered with lead, and sash 
 windows in the front. In the Avonmore case, however, 
 there was a slight deviation or addition, rendering the 
 orangery more elegant in appearance, and better for 
 the health and growth of the plants themselves. In 
 the centre of the leaded roof rose a small octagon- 
 shaped glass cupola, which could be elevated at plea- 
 vol. 1. M
 
 i j 8 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 sure about a foot, for the freer admission of air. On 
 the outside of the orangery's leaded roof, at its edge, 
 ran round an ornamental work of delicately filagreed 
 iron, rising perhaps one foot, and thus the roof of the 
 orangery formed a complete balcony to the windows of 
 the room looking on to it. And the windows that did 
 open on to this leaded roof were the windows of the 
 room Helene loved, were the windows of the great 
 chamber with its cornice of festons dor 6s, its hangings of 
 cramoisi, which she as a child had so much regretted 
 to leave. 
 
 We have shown a^ain and a^ain the romantic devo- 
 tion with which Sir Charles Daubigny regarded his 
 protigSe. It was as much the torment and the delight 
 of his soul as George Selwyn's absorbing attachment to 
 Mie Mie had been. 
 
 When Helene ceased to reside at Avonmore and 
 went with her father to the cottage, Sir Charles wrote 
 instantly on her departure to Mrs. Bird, desiring that 
 no single thing that Miss Graham had used during 
 her occupation of the great chamber should be moved 
 out of it. " Let everything," he wrote, " remain pre- 
 cisely as Miss Graham left it." Yes, henceforward for 
 him that chamber, with its festons dorSs, its hangings 
 of cramoisi, was sanctified. He called it Helene's 
 room, and, of course, when the girl returned to Avon- 
 more she again occupied it. 
 
 As it behoves me to be very accurate in my descrip- 
 tion of the great chamber hung with cramoisi, I must 
 not omit to state that its lofty windows came down to 
 within a foot of the floor ; that thus there was no difn-
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 1 79 
 
 culty in attaining the leaded roof of the orangery. I 
 may also add that, like every other sleeping apartment 
 of size and importance at Avonmore, at the chamber's 
 pntrance from the corridor was a vestibule or ante- 
 chamber.
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 The clock that sends afar its sonorous chirne was hither 
 brought from Italy. For half the village poor it marks 
 the time ; each little household listens for its chime, 
 and trusts to it implicitly. 
 
 'Tis said Sir Gilbert Louis Daubigny, sojourning in 
 that southern clime, dwelt near an ancient monastery, 
 which, however picturesque and sublime, threatened to 
 fall on to the community if it tarried longer time. 
 
 The sisters quitted their retreat reluctantly, to find 
 one suitable but of a newer style. It was found indeed 
 to be a difficulty, but at length the venerable pile was 
 left to its forlorn and falling destiny. 
 
 Day by day our baronet had heard meanwhile the 
 chime borne on the breeze, how exquisitely. " Would," 
 cried he, " I could beguile the Abbess into bargaining 
 commercially." Sir Gilbert wrote, I cannot give his 
 style, but I know he wrote persuasively, for the holy 
 mother in a very little while answered, asking for the 
 clock exorbitantly, adding, with all a wily woman's 
 guile, that it would be acting sacrilegiously to denude 
 the venerable pile, unless, indeed, she had such in- 
 demnity as would suffice to glorify the aisle of the new 
 chapel used by her community. Had our baronet
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 181 
 
 been mercantile, he would have answered assuredly 
 that to give so much was not worth his while. But he 
 had been reared magnificently. At his banker's, too, 
 lay heaps of gold, for his had been a long minority. 
 
 So Sir Gilbert Daubigny, as we are told, willingly 
 paid the sum demanded, charmed that the Lady 
 Abbess thus had sold the chime that never ceased to 
 soothe him infinitely, even when he was sad, bowed 
 down, and old. 
 
 And when one hears the old clock's sweet-toned 
 chime, arise before the mind how vividly dim half- 
 forgotten scenes of other climes, visions of cities, 
 picturesque and old, wherein from steepled church or 
 hidden monastery one hears, as it were almost perpetu- 
 ally, such marking of sad fleeting time. 
 
 How oft this once monastic clock has told the hour 
 to sad recluse, waiting wistfully to steal into the chapel 
 dim and old, where daylight strove through shields of 
 heraldry set in the diamond panes, — azure, ruby, gold. 
 
 And when the sunbeams struggled through, playfully, 
 they danced upon the marble pavement, worn and old, 
 chequering it with colours ; variously, as in the arched 
 windows, tinted were the gorgeous coats-of-arms. Such 
 was the chapel of the falling monastery, whence senti- 
 ment, or perhaps mere whim, induced the wealthiest, 
 proudest Daubigny to tear this art-treasure, which, 
 for him, sounds no more, yet spreadeth still its melody, 
 sad as notes of dirge-like hymn o'er the rich man's 
 grave, through the vale of Avonmore. 
 
 But now its sweet tones, soft and sonorously, o'er 
 bright-hued flowers, white-bloomed acacia trees, are
 
 1 32 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 borne towards the orangery on the scarcely moving 
 eastern "breeze. 
 
 Yes, tells the chime, 'tis half-past seven ; and though 
 it be but early hour, the summer sun so long has risen, 
 and shines with such unwonted power, that even at this 
 so early time the balcony, the orangery, are genial as 
 that southern clime where long was heard the sweet- 
 toned chime. The mansion's roof on this its eastern 
 side, hangs o'er in foreign style projectingly. Beneath 
 the roof are brackets which divide the space, and grace 
 it ornamentally. The corner bracket forms a sheltered 
 nook, in which a pair of swallows breed unfailingly. Is 
 it instinct brings them with the spring to look again 
 for this their little hostelry ? 
 
 And now they have a nest, and have lured two of 
 their young down on to the flat-roofed orangery, and 
 with voice and gesture fain would woo the other two 
 also to try their liberty. With shrill wild cries, with 
 oft-repeated upward flight, the old birds try, but not 
 as yet successfully. 
 
 And can it be that still our Helene sleeps ? Her 
 windows are indeed enshrouded yet. Closed are the 
 curtains of deep cramoisi. But sleeps the girl when 
 nature keeps such holiday, and with such shrill cries 
 o'er — such twittering in her balcony ? 
 
 Yes, Helene sleeps. The long, long hours of night, 
 passed betwixt passions, pleadings, and more right- 
 eous fears, have wearied her so out, that now for her 
 'tis night, and voice of bird the girl nor heeds nor 
 hears. 
 
 Oh for an artist's gift, his magic power, that to my
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 183 
 
 reader's sight I might convey a picture visibly of 
 Helene as she all careless in her beauty lay this summer 
 hour. Can words, mere words, depict, portray ? Can 
 words suffice to trace that impression of that lovely but 
 Gipsy face ? 
 
 As the girl sleeps unconsciously, shrouded it is in 
 some degree by tresses straying carelessly, dishevelled 
 in the tossings of the night. Deep brown those tresses 
 in the shade, but burnished gold, all sparkling bright, 
 when noon-tide sunbeams on them played and as it 
 were, around her head a glory made. The brows were 
 pencilled, arched, dark. The closed lids shut out from 
 view eyes of tenderest sapphire blue ; and the eyelids, 
 heavy now with sleep, are bravely set, with fringes 
 tawny, tipped with jet. 
 
 How gracefully the girl is lying ; her form voluptuous, 
 well denned. The summer heat has lately been so 
 trying, and no window in her chamber has a blind, but 
 only curtains of deep cramoisi. No w T onder if she has 
 but over her, beside her broidered cambric robe de 
 mcit, one single sheet of lawn to cover her. And thus 
 'twould be as easy now for me to trace the form vo- 
 luptuous as the witching face. But I refrain, return 
 to my first venture. Eed as rosebuds ere their leaves 
 unclose are Helene's pretty pouting lips, and fragrant 
 as the opening rose the breath that steals away in 
 sighs for Daubigny. AVith all her beauty Helene had a 
 nose, certainly not Grecian, still less Eoman. Perhaps 
 this defect, if defect it were, arose for that in years 
 she was yet scarcely woman. Childish its form, of no 
 description, unless we call it zingaree, Egyptian. Poets
 
 184 hir Little Gipsy. 
 
 compare the cheek's perfection to the rounded peach in 
 form, in hue. But the peach may have an inclination 
 to a sickly or a wax-like hue. Helene's cheek was 
 moulded as the peach, 'tis true ; but to its blonde 
 tints her cheek had no pretension. Her bloom was 
 of that richer, sunnier dye that tells of life beneath 
 an eastern sky. 
 
 Yes, Helene sleeps, and as we said before, veiled are 
 her windows in deep cramoisi ; but in her chamber still 
 the shaded night-lamp burns, supplying partially the 
 excluded light of day, and close beside the bed, upon a 
 high and carved stand of ebony, a tall wax taper burns 
 its soft and chastened ray, resting on the girl and on 
 the bed of cramoisi. And here, in a few brief sentences, 
 we must explain how it was the tall wax taper came 
 to be burning on an ebon stand so near the bed of 
 cramoisi. 
 
 Awake, but still in bed, had Helene lain until the 
 depths of night were o'er; but when she heard the 
 blackbird sing, the swallow twitter, she could endure her 
 weariness no more, she rose and sought this stand of 
 ebony. 'Twas heavy, far too heavy for that little hand, 
 but she would not be defeated ; gradually, with exertion 
 oft repeated, she brings it to the bed of cramoisi. Then 
 to the toilet-table did she flit, and with a twisted bit of 
 paper lit one of the tall wax tapers Oiseau there had 
 set the day before, bearing it lighted to the carved 
 stand of ebony. Next, casting off each little Gipsy 
 foot a heelless slipper, she climbs the mighty bed, and, 
 with stately canopy o'erhead, again, again, again she 
 reads Daubigny's letter. Oh, ever had the reading
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 185 
 
 of that letter ended all the same. As she thought of 
 going stealthily beside the river, came athwart her 
 conscience and her pride a shudder and a shiver, and 
 to her brow there rose a glow of shame. Then fancy, 
 passion, pictured him a-lying on his oars awaiting for 
 her coming, — awaiting, but in vain. And as fancy thus 
 depicted him, would fall the burning tears she could 
 no more restrain. Conscience, honour, rectitude, said 
 ever, always, No ; but passion, anguish, pleading, over- 
 came her scruples, bade her thither go. 
 
 Worn out with doubt, at length our Helene sinks 
 to sleep unconsciously. Fallen from her hand the 
 sinner's letter. Unconscious she that on the sheet it 
 open lies ; unconscious she of burning waxen light 
 beside the bed of cramoisi, upon the carved stand of 
 ebony. 
 
 At length she wakes to feel that 'tis a world of woe. 
 Ah, how she sighs, how heavily, as her gaze rests upon 
 his letter ; and then she gazes round, thinks of the 
 placid past, when she was happier and far better. But 
 oh, the past, its placid peace is gone for her for ever ! 
 
 Custom had rendered prayer necessity ; she rises, 
 casts herself upon her knees beside the bed of cramoisi. 
 But oh ! this hapless morn her prayer was but a 
 mockery. 'Twixt every holy word she said thrust in 
 the voice, the form of Daubigny. 
 
 And Helene dresses somewhat hastily, for she hears 
 its silvery chime, and then the out-door clock strikes 
 eight. St. Louis had one slight peculiarity, he could 
 not bear unpunctuality ; and with a tinge of coming 
 age, desired to have his breakfast regularly at half-past
 
 1 86 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 eight. On entering the library, where breakfast now 
 was served, the girl felt a little awkwardly as her Saint 
 observed, " Helene, you are late. When last night you 
 left me in that wretched state, you might have thought, 
 my love, I should not like to wait." 
 
 " I know I 'm late," cried she confusedly. " Some evil 
 fate has surely been against me ; everything to-day 
 goes wrong." 
 
 He gazed upon her curiously, inquisitively ; he was 
 scarce satisfied, his faith was somewhat shaken. But, 
 like a very saint in charity, he did his best ; he tried to 
 feel, to hope he was mistaken.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Helene was now about to weave the first loop in the 
 web of her destiny. For the first time in her life an 
 opportunity was afforded her of acting in a grave 
 matter according to her own judgment. Good and 
 evil were set before her, temptation of the strongest 
 kind was proffered. Would she choose to drink of 
 this delicious poison ? Would she choose to bring 
 upon herself sorrow, misery, spiritual degradation ? 
 She had a perfect consciousness that to yield was to 
 err. The still small voice of conscience again and 
 again had bidden her to resist, and in the lonely hours 
 of night she had listened to the suogestions of this 
 holy monitor in fear and in trembling. But in the 
 sunny light of the lovely morning that now dawned 
 upon her, this better feeling, these righteous scruples, 
 were fast vanishing away. That that she had felt cer- 
 tain she ought not to do, that that she had decided not 
 to do when the pale moon shone amid the fleecy clouds 
 of night, had lost its impossibility, was almost divested 
 of its impropriety, now that the sun's rays glowed 
 upon her balcony and danced upon the scarcely 
 moving boughs near. 
 
 It is wonderful with what rapidity the mind can
 
 1 88 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 accommodate itself to wrong, when once a determina- 
 tion to err lias been formed. How we can trample out 
 the light, the fire of conscience and conviction, and 
 walk almost as it were unconcernedly over the ashes 
 of truth. 
 
 Very soon after breakfast Helene's scruples withheld 
 her no longer, she had cast them aside. She would 
 meet Daubigny, she would, she must see him once 
 again. She would walk down to the Avonmore 
 landing-place, she would speak to him but for a few 
 brief minutes, she would bid him a last farewell, and 
 then return. The girl by this time was so infatuated 
 she could begin to think of her appearance, of her 
 dress ; she began to consider what dress she should 
 wear on this to her momentous occasion. With the 
 vanity that was a part of her nature, she would fain 
 impress her lover, at this their last interview, with a 
 sense of her elegance. He had arrived at Avonmore, 
 as he himself had almost confessed, believing her to be 
 a very inferior person. She was, naturally enough, 
 desirous that he should carry away a far different 
 impression, and with this view she determined to be 
 attired as elegantly as though she were about to appear 
 at a fete. She chose to put on her last new dress, a 
 creamy white Indian muslin, trimmed with lace and 
 blue ribbons. Not, however, until she had seen Sir 
 Charles thoroughly occupied over his letters did she 
 dare venture to adopt this bewitching costume ; she 
 knew, were he to see her thus arrayed at so early an 
 hour, it might draw forth some embarrassing remark, 
 it might excite his suspicions.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 189 
 
 At length, finding him in deep consideration, she 
 seizes the happy moment, leaves the room, steals up- 
 stairs, and rapidly prepares for her stealthy walk. As 
 she stood before the glass, it struck her that the locket 
 she had on did not harmonise with the blue trimmings 
 of her dress. She must have a locket with blue stones 
 in it, and seeking her mother's jewel-box, she found 
 and abstracted from it the very thing, a locket set with 
 turquoise and diamonds. Another minute or two, and 
 a ribbon was found of a colour to match the bows on 
 her dress. Hastily she tied the locket round her little 
 Gipsy throat, gazed once more at her own reflection in 
 the mirror, and was satisfied. Never, indeed, had the 
 hapless girl looked more lovely. If at this very 
 youthful age there was a fault in Helene's beauty, it 
 was that her colour was almost too brilliant ; but the 
 agitation of her spirits, the fluttering of her heart, 
 caused now a pallor rather to subdue her natural 
 bloom. Nay more, the errand she was bent on, the 
 wakefulness of the night she had passed, gave a languor, 
 a softness, which added to her fascination. 
 
 To get to the river's side there was no occasion to 
 leave the Avonmore grounds. Our Helene then wore 
 neither hat nor bonnet ; her brown burnished gold hair 
 was braided simply round her beautifully-shaped head, 
 one or two long tresses only being permitted to escape 
 and wave and sparkle in the sunny air. She carried 
 with her a little flower-basket, that it might appear 
 she was merely bent on her daily errand of gathering a 
 nosegay. We have said before that frequently she 
 would run out in the burning sun without a parasol to
 
 190 Our Little Gipsy, 
 
 shade her. In like manner she would run out in the 
 garden with gloveless hands ; and thus, shaped well 
 and very small, yet were our heroine's hands anything 
 but pearly white. She had no gloves on now, they lay 
 in her flower-basket ; nevertheless, the little cream- 
 coloured fingers sparkled with rings. 
 
 And here, perhaps, some fine lady who wears gloves 
 herself through every stage of life's dull journey may 
 cry out that " Helene positively must be a vulgar little 
 thing." Then I who write the girl's story shall retort 
 thus — 
 
 " Can you, fair lady, walk with such a harmony of 
 grace as Helene ?" 
 
 Ah ! behold her, pity her infatuation. She has gone 
 forth now, and is walking with a perfect grace towards 
 the river side. We have spoken of the vast and hoary 
 rocks that rise upon the river's eastern side; it is 
 towards these hoary rocks, by a winding path, winding 
 through shrubbery and brushwood, that Helene now 
 takes her way. She seeks the only level piece of 
 ground by the river side, — that known as the landing- 
 place. Scarcely a natural break in the rugged masses 
 of stone could this level be ; probably at some far-oft 
 period the rock had been blasted to form it. 
 
 The girl has now reached this little verdant platform, 
 she stands enshadowed by the hoary rocks that rise on 
 either side. Anxiously she gazes on the gliding waters 
 at her feet; it was but a moment's suspense. Daubigny 
 had been lying on his oars behind the rocky screen 
 already a fall quarter of an hour ; he has heard her light 
 foot-fall, he catches a glimpse of the white dress. Now
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 191 
 
 ore they discoursing, he still in his boat on the cold, 
 cold waters, she on the green bank a little above. 
 Ifappy had it been for her if she had kept to her 
 resolution, if here she had bidden him a last farewell. 
 But who, having taken one wrong step, can be certain 
 they will not take another? At length the wily 
 Daubigny persuades her to get into the boat ; he 
 rows her to an indentation amid the rocks, they quit 
 the boat, unseen, as they believe, they sit in this 
 solitude, his arm has stolen round her waist. 
 
 Having succeeded thus far in his endeavours, the 
 sinner is now emboldened to plead for further indul- 
 gence. "Must this," he murmurs, "be the last hour 
 that I shall care to live ? Must darkness fall upon my 
 soul so soon? Is it possible that never more I may hear 
 the one voice I care to hear?" He leaves, as he now 
 tells the simple girl, by the mail at one o'clock next 
 morning. May he not come under her window ? May 
 he not talk to her from the Avonmore garden at eleven 
 that night, when all in the house will have gone to 
 rest ? 
 
 " Impossible," cries Helene. " If it were in the day ; 
 but imagine such a thing at night. How can you dare 
 to ask me to do such an outrageous thing?" 
 
 " Shall I not be perhaps eighteen feet beneath you. 
 What harm can come of a conversation carried on with 
 so much space betwixt us ?" 
 
 " I cannot, I dare not," returned the girl in accents 
 that trembled from the agitation of her spirits. 
 
 " Can you not come out on to the leads " (thus he 
 called the leaded roof of the orangery) ? " Have you
 
 192 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 never been out there of a moonlight night ? Why, if 
 any one saw you this burning summer weather, they 
 would only suppose you came to get a little air." 
 
 " Oh, don't come!" murmured Helene; "let us part 
 here. I have done wrong enough already ; do not urge 
 me to another act of impropriety." 
 
 "I shall come, I shall be there," now exclaimed 
 Daubigny in loud and impassioned accents. " I shall 
 be before the orangery at eleven as the out- door clock 
 strikes. I will not go at all, for I care not what 
 becomes of me if you are unkind; I will not go to 
 London at all if you are cruel enough to deny me this 
 simple request." 
 
 Helene's tears were falling now. We are sorry to be 
 obliged to tell that as Daubigny 's wicked lips kissed 
 those tears away, the girl murmured out a sweet, a sad 
 assent. She promised to come forth from her bedroom 
 window and ^reet him as he stood below.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 As our reader may imagine, Helene, burdened by a 
 consciousness of her own duplicity, kept as much out 
 of Sir Charles's way as she could without exciting his 
 suspicions. One trifle, — was it a trifle ? yes, it was a 
 trifle in comparison to the stolen interview she had just 
 had with Daubigny, in comparison to that last, that 
 hazardous farewell, yet amid the shadows of night to 
 be enacted. So we proceed to say that one trifle dis- 
 composed our heroine. On returning from her stealthy 
 walk, as she stood before the toilet mirror, she saw 
 that the locket she had worn, ribbon and all, had 
 disappeared from her neck. At another time such a 
 loss had been vexatious enough, but to-day it was, 
 or it might become a graver affair. If the locket had 
 fallen off in any spot near the river, if it should be 
 found in such a situation, and should be brought by 
 the finder either to Mrs. Bird or to Sir Charles, it would 
 give a clew to her movements which might prove 
 cruelly embarrassing. 
 
 When, therefore, the girl had rested herself, when 
 she had partaken of some strawberries and wine and 
 water at luncheon-time, she sought and found an 
 opportunity of strolling back again into the same wild 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 194 O ur Little Gipsy. 
 
 part of the Avonmore gardens that she had so lately 
 traversed, in the hope of picking up on her way the lost 
 locket. Her search, however, was of no avail, and 
 bringing in a handful of rosebuds, that gave her 
 now a heartache even to gaze upon, so changed was 
 her every feeling, so changed seemed every circum- 
 stance in relation to herself, bringing them in as 
 an excuse for her stroll, she stood arranoin^ them 
 mechanically, as it were, scarce able to restrain her 
 sighs and her tears as one by one she placed them in 
 the flower- vase. 
 
 To appear composed, however, the girl knew was 
 absolutely necessary in order to insure the certainty of 
 that last adieu she had promised Daubigny, and suc- 
 cessfully she struggled to conceal the depression and 
 disturbance of her mind. Truth for the moment was 
 cast aside, the voice of conscience she would not hear. 
 This day she had abandoned herself to a passion that 
 had no foundation in reason, for which her reason 
 could have given no justification. 
 
 The girl had read of love. It was time, accord- 
 ing to the theory laid down in play and romance, 
 that she should have a lover. Accident had thrown 
 one in her way, and for no better reason was this 
 rebellion in her soul against all that hitherto she had 
 held to be estimable and right. Dissimulation she had 
 never practised before ; falsehoods, which her lips till 
 now had never uttered, were this day promulgated, 
 enacted, pronounced, almost without compunction. 
 
 It had been, as we have described, a lovely summer 
 morning, calm and still, with scarce a cloud to dim the
 
 Oiir Little Gipsy. 195 
 
 sky, but as the day advanced the weather slightly 
 changed. Towards evening the little wind there was 
 was south or south-west, while the sky now wore a 
 dark and cloudy look, now -was radiant with a gleam of 
 golder^ sunshine. These intervals of sunshine were 
 marked by a heat almost tropic in its intensity. Sir 
 Charles, ever anxiously watching over his protigie, had 
 noticed her want of appetite at luncheon-time ; she who, 
 at one o'clock, could usually eat a little meat, some 
 cake or some tart, this day, at this time, could partake 
 but of strawberries aud wine and water. The fact was, 
 that under such pressure of excitement, under such a 
 burden of new-born simulation, Helene's appetite had 
 wholly failed. At dinner-time Sir Charles remarked 
 with still greater uneasiness, that of the various good 
 things apportioned to her she so slightly partook, that 
 her plate was carried off by Thomas again and again 
 with scarcely diminished freight. At length he could 
 refrain no longer ; his anxious looks were accompanied 
 by anxious words. Falsehood had become essential 
 to Helene now ; she must use it as a veil to hide the 
 soul's heavy burden. With all the appearance of 
 simplicity she could evoke, she declared, in answer to 
 the anxious gaze fixed upon her, " that the heat was so 
 oppressive, she wondered any one could eat a dinner. 
 She felt certain there was thunder in the air, that a 
 storm was coming; she felt quite overcome." But 
 although the girl thus protested, our poor baronet was 
 not satisfied ; a doubt, a dread, a sad foreboding 
 weighed heavily on his heart. Had not Tresham's 
 youth, his beauty, his artifice prevailed? Had he
 
 196 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 not intervened betwixt himself and his one and only 
 earthly treasure ? When Thomas had left the room, 
 as the twain still sat at the dinner-table, its polished 
 surface now bearing but flowers and fruit, as the twain 
 yet sat together over the luxurious dessert that neither 
 touched, the girl looked up, and encountering her patron's 
 fine but melancholy eyes fixed full upon her, searching, 
 as it were, for the truth, she could not help glowing 
 with consciousness, glowing with a sense of her own 
 duplicity, but still she advanced in guile. 
 
 " You had a headache last night," she said, forcing 
 a smile ; " I have one to- day." 
 
 He answered nothing. He was crowinG; incredulous ; 
 his faith was shaken ; a presentiment of coming evil 
 cast its shadow on his spirit. He turned his eyes 
 away. He ceased to gaze upon her, and now she might 
 steal a glance at him. Oh ! at that instant she felt 
 half inclined to cast herself down on the ground at his 
 feet, and confess how far she had deluded him already. 
 She felt almost as though she must beseech him to 
 save her from herself. If Helene had known more of 
 his hidden feelings, if she had known more of the 
 intensity of his attachment, if she had known more of 
 the sinner's nature for whom she was about to make 
 such a sacrifice, she might ; but, alas ! her eyes were 
 sealed. Presently, according to her usual custom after 
 dinner, she arose to leave the room. Sir Charles, who 
 invariably exercised towards his proUgie as much cour- 
 tesy as tenderness, left his seat also, held open the 
 door. As she approached closely to where he stood, 
 once more he raised his eyes as though he would have
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 197 
 
 encountered hers. His lips almost spoke ; he had 
 evidently a desire to arrest her attention ; he was 
 about to speak. But so great was the girl's nervous 
 dread, or so embarrassed she felt, that, affecting not to 
 notice his peculiar manner, she went unheeding on her 
 way. How many false stitches has Helene woven 
 this hapless day in the woof of her destiny !
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 The girl, as we have seen, was gone. Sir Charles 
 remained in the dining-room, lost in thought, distrait, 
 and gloomy. As thus he sat, Mrs. Bird, tapping at 
 the door, asked if she might come in. Very unwelcome 
 was her visit to the master. No doubt, thinks he, she 
 comes about some household nuisance. But Mrs. Bird's 
 mission was of far graver import than he had appre- 
 hended. " I hope, sir," began the old dame, " I hope, 
 sir, you will not think me officious, but, indeed, sir, I 
 cannot feel easy to be silent. I am very uncomfort- 
 able about Miss Graham." 
 
 " What is it?" eagerly, almost stricken with presenti- 
 ment of evil, he asked. 
 
 " Last night, sir, after leaving your room with the 
 little tray in my hands, I thought I could hear some 
 one walking very stealthily like along the corridor up 
 stairs. I stood still and listened. I was certain I 
 could hear footsteps. I waited, and presently I saw 
 the figure of a man move along. I saw this person go 
 to Miss Helene's door." 
 
 "Great God !" exclaimed Sir Charles, becoming ashy 
 pale.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 199 
 
 " Do not be alanned, sir, there is nothing bad, 
 nothing worse." 
 
 " Worse ! worse ! but one thing could be worse," 
 gasped rather than spoke the master. " Go on." 
 
 " The person tapped cautiously. In a minute or so 
 the door was opened, opened a very little way." 
 
 " He went in ?" cried Sir Charles. 
 
 " No, sir, he did not go in," said Mrs. Bird ; " but I 
 could see that he gave Miss Helene a letter." 
 
 " Yes," exclaimed the elder Daubigny in anguish, 
 in bitterness of spirit. {: She is his, wholly his. I felt 
 that it would be so." 
 
 " He went away," continued Mrs. Bird, " almost 
 directly. He went the way I saw him come. But T 
 thought, sir, it was my duty to warn you, sir, of the 
 sort of intimacy there is betwixt — " Mrs. Bird paused. 
 
 "Are you not certain who it was?" almost fiercely 
 demanded the master. 
 
 " Yes, sir. I believe I could not mistake. It was 
 Mr. Tresham." 
 
 Scarce had the word Tresham escaped Mrs. Bird's 
 lips when Tummas entered without his customary 
 ceremony, or rather we should say with an unusual ex- 
 citement and hurry in his manner. " If you please, 
 sir," he says, " there 's something the matter as requires 
 your inwestigation immediate, sir ; a young fellow 's been 
 a-found trespassin' — a-fishin', sir." 
 
 " What's that to me ?" inquires the tortured master 
 in tones so strange that the footman started. 
 
 "I beg pardon, sir, but there's somethin' more 
 serious. As head-keeper seized on the lad, there
 
 200 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 fell from his pocket a jewel, sir, a lady's locket of 
 great value." 
 
 " Am I to be bothered by having all the thieves in 
 the neighbourhood brought before me ? Tell the keeper 
 to take him before some other magistrate." 
 
 " Beg pardon, sir, but there 's somethin' very strange, 
 keeper says, about it ; the young chap declares he han't 
 stole it, and keeps a-sayin', ' Take me afore young 
 Mr. Daubigny, and he'll make it all right.'" 
 
 At these words Sir Charles's mood suddenly changed. 
 
 " Where was the fellow found, and when ?" he asked. 
 
 " He was asleep among the rushes by the river, sir, 
 when keeper twigged him, this very afternoon." 
 
 " Mrs. Bird," cries Sir Charles, " go bid the keeper 
 send me the locket by you." 
 
 How feeble are mere words to describe Charles Dau- 
 bigny's sensations in the interval betwixt Mrs. Bird's 
 departure and her return. He seemed in his soul 
 already to know that more determined evidence would 
 presently appear of the girl's duplicity and worthless- 
 ness. To say that he shuddered with apprehension is 
 not too strong a term. But if he were thus agitated 
 during this interval of suspense, to what greater anguish 
 was he condemned when Mrs. Bird, re-appearing, placed 
 in his hand the locket. It was, indeed, almost to him 
 as an apparition, as a visitant from the other world. 
 He had given it to Helene Vane when he foolishly be- 
 lieved himself to be beloved by her. She, careless and 
 unscrupulous, had never returned the love gift ; and 
 now he knew, alas ! but too well, that her daughter had 
 worn it, had dropped it. Yes ; ere greater evidence
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 201 
 
 was before him, lie felt that it would prove but another 
 link in the chain that should prison him evermore in 
 hopeless misery. 
 
 In an instant, all his loath ness to see the culprit was 
 gone. He bade Mrs. Bird go back and tell the keeper 
 to bring the lad instantly before him. 
 
 And now presently appears poor Archie, conducted 
 by the keeper, who also exercises the duties of a 
 constable. 
 
 " Sir," says the keeper, addressing our master, " sir, I 
 can't make nothin' out of the lad. That I caught him 
 a-trespassin', that he 's been a-flshin,'s clear as day ; but 
 he declares he never stole the jewel, and that if he 
 could but see our young leddy or Mr. Tresham, it 'ud 
 be proved." 
 
 Sir Charles now addresses the keeper. Ghastly pale 
 he is, but stern and resolved his manner. " You can 
 leave the room ; you can leave me alone with this young 
 fellow. I wish to investigate the affair my own way. 
 Mrs. Bird, I will send for you presently." 
 
 "You'd a-better let me stay, sir," whispered the 
 keeper to Sir Charles. " He 's terrible strong ; and if 
 you have any words with him — " 
 
 " Leave me," returned the master, and reluctantly 
 enough (for their curiosity ran high) retired Mrs. Bird, 
 head-keeper, and Tummas, — Tummas, who, unseen, had 
 yet been listening. 
 
 And now Archie and Sir Charles Daubigny are left 
 together in the dining-room, gazing in doubt, in dread, 
 in perplexity on each other. How sad, how strange a 
 contrast ! The refined and delicate, and now ghastly
 
 202 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 pale countenance of the one, — ghastly pale, yet full of 
 intense interest ; the leather-brown, the mud-bespat- 
 tered features of the other, yet withal a native and 
 unquenchable beauty gleaming out of the deep blue 
 eyes. Poor, wretched Archie ! In the scuffle he had had 
 with the constable his old coat had been rent, his hand- 
 kerchief torn from his neck. No one could be in more 
 evil plight. And he stood before a man the personifica- 
 tion of refinement, attired, too, in his evening dress. 
 
 " We are alone," were the first words Sir Charles ad- 
 dressed to the culprit, " and I give you," he continued, 
 " the word of a gentleman, that whatever you would 
 have spoken to my nephew is as safe with me." 
 
 "You are not Mr. Tresham," answered the lad, nothing 
 daunted by the presence of the fine gentleman before 
 whom he stood. " I have repeatedly told the keeper he 
 is the person I wish to see." 
 
 " I am his uncle." 
 
 " I know it, sir ; but there 's a deal of difference." 
 
 "There ought not to be. And are you aware that 
 my nephew is not here ?" 
 
 " He was here this morning," simply exclaimed the 
 lad. 
 
 " You saw him. You have seen him then this 
 morning here?" 
 
 " Yes, on the river." 
 
 Ah ! what sharper pain thrills through the master's 
 soul at every word the poor lad utters ! Hoarse was 
 the voice that questioned now. 
 
 " I demand to know, I insist on knowing, how you 
 came with this," holding up the locket. " Hear me.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 203 
 
 I am more deeply interested in your silence on the 
 subject than you may imagine. Tell me honestly the 
 truth ; but mention nothing — nothing to any other 
 person. I ask you not as an enemy, but as a friend. 
 If I can, I will not fail to help you." 
 
 " Ah, sir, there 's a something sneakin' in my telling. 
 I 'm not a-doin as I 'd be done by." 
 
 " Do I not say your information shall be safe, safer 
 with me than with yourself." 
 
 Archie still hung back. The required information 
 did not seem to be forthcoming. A deeper cloud, a 
 frown, the evidence of anger hard to be repressed, is 
 gathering on the master's brow as he contemplates the 
 sinewy form, the undaunted and determined counte- 
 nance of the lad who stands before him. 
 
 " You are perhaps expecting," continued Sir Charles, 
 "that you may gain something by delay. You are 
 perhaps expecting that the door may open, and that 
 my nephew may appear. But this will not be the 
 case. He and I are no longer on terms of familiarity. 
 He will not venture to intrude unbidden. Moreover, 
 were he to see you, were he here now, he would not 
 hesitate to sacrifice you to his convenience. If a 
 witness were present when you told your tale, and it 
 happened to be an inconvenient one to himself, he 
 would simply deny the whole, and denounce you as a 
 lying young scoundrel." 
 
 For the first time since the keeper had laid hands 
 upon him, Archie's features w r ere lit up by a sparkle 
 of mirth. He could not repress a smile as now he 
 answered : —
 
 204 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " May be, your honour, you are right enow there. I 
 have, indeed, heard say that Mr. Tresham's something 
 crooked in his dealings ; and, sir," added Archie, the 
 wicked smile vanishing, " I ha' heard much, very much 
 of your honour, of your goodness, of your kindness to 
 the puir folk about." Then, after an instant's silence, 
 he added, " If I should tell ye what ye desire of me, 
 for aught I know, it may mak a deal of mischief. I 
 came by what I could tell your honour not in a right 
 way. I was a-lyin' hidden, and I ha' no business to 
 know what I know. Can ye reconcile my splittin' to the 
 honour o' a man ? Would you, sir, at the bidding of a 
 king, do a dirty deed ? No, sir, I ken not ; and why 
 sud I, at the biddin' of yer honour, who 's greater, indeed, 
 than mony a lord, tell what I sud never 'a know'd?" 
 
 "There is a limit to patience, to endurance, to 
 mercy," retorted Charles Daubigny, haughtily and 
 coldly. " Hear me, young man, for I shall use no 
 further persuasion. Since you will give me no satis- 
 factory account of the whole affair, I must indeed 
 recall our constable. I must regard you as a suspicious 
 character. I must hand you over to the keeper's tender 
 mercies. You will leave this room only in his custody." 
 
 " Sir," cried the stranger lad, " I stand before ye 
 but as an outcast. I ha' never a friend to speak for 
 me. But will ye bring this utter ruin on me ? Oh, 
 sir, I ha' better blud in my veins than seems possible 
 to ye. My grandsire fell from his rightfu' place. 
 Won't ye show me some compassion ? Must I suffer 
 as a thief without proven guilt ?" 
 
 " I give you your choice. Trust wholly to me. Tell
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 205 
 
 me the truth. You will save yourself from disgrace, 
 and, perhaps," added Sir Charles, with a voice that 
 scarce was steady, " perhaps be the means of saving the 
 hapless child to whom this (holding up the locket) — to 
 whom this belongs." 
 
 " Archie gazed a moment sadly, irresolutely, on Sir 
 Charles, then in tones almost as agitated as the master's, 
 he said, " You, sir, ask a confidence from me. May I 
 first venture to ask a question of your honour ? Tell 
 me, do you indeed fear harm for the young leddy ? 
 Do you believe that if I winna tell harm might light 
 upon her ?" 
 
 Sir Charles bowed his head. 
 
 " You ha' said, pardon my freedom, you ha' said 
 that Mr. Tresham has no scruple. Y"ou doubt — " 
 
 " I have too much reason." 
 
 " You doubt his purpose in persuading the young 
 leddy to see him secretly." 
 
 What a fresh torture had the poor lad unwittingly 
 inflicted ! 
 
 "Hear me," murmured the master, "he seeks but 
 her ruin. I am convinced of it." 
 
 What an anguish for our master thus to condescend ! 
 The colour covered even his previously ash- pale brow 
 as he uttered his last words ; but they had an instan- 
 taneous effect. 
 
 "Then, God ha' mercy if I'm wrong; but I do feel 
 free to tell yer honour word for word as I ha' heard 'em 
 speak." 
 
 Hitherto we have seen Sir Charles gentle, subdued,
 
 2o6 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 and patient, but now suddenly had been revealed to 
 him such a degree of duplicity, where he had hoped 
 and believed to have found nothing but simplicity and 
 truth, that he could endure no more. He was alone, 
 and the excitement and anguish of his mind caused 
 him for the next half hour hastily, hurriedly to 
 pace the dining-room. In this brief interval of 
 reverie, of solitude, broke upon him a light he fain 
 had instantly extinguished, a truth he hitherto had 
 managed to conceal even from himself. Every instant 
 now his rage, his jealousy, was augmenting ; and 
 finally, he was compelled to acknowledge his own 
 frailty. 
 
 Yes, he, too, was the girl's lover, and in his nephew 
 he could behold but a successful rival who had suc- 
 ceeded in tearing from him the one treasure of his 
 soul. He would rather see the girl lying dead before 
 him than that Tresham should ever embrace her more. 
 Where, will my reader ask, has flown this Christian's 
 Christianity ? We answer, Who may not fall ? 
 
 Nothing was in his mind but the girl's guile and 
 falsehood ; nothing seemed left to him but to prove 
 her want of rectitude, to condemn and to punish. 
 
 He would practise towards her a reserve, a simula- 
 tion equal to her own ; he would witness with his own 
 eyes the arranged nocturnal interview, and having 
 witnessed it, he would cast her from him for ever ; he 
 would teach himself to despise the thing he had loved 
 too well. 
 
 How long Charles Daubigny would have continued 
 thus darkly, fiercely, brooding over the wrong his
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 207 
 
 nephew had done him we know not, but his reverie 
 was abruptly terminated. Tummas, the unfortunate 
 Tummas, intruded his person once more upon our poor 
 master's notice. 
 
 " If you please, sir, tea has been in some time, sir. 
 Miss Graham has asked me to tell you, sir." 
 
 Somewdiat hurriedly Sir Charles answered, " Tell 
 Miss Graham I will come in a few minutes ; go to her 
 at once, say that I have been busy, engaged." 
 
 The footman returned to Helene with his master's 
 message, and as soon as he was out of sight the 
 habitual invalid, with all the rapidity of health and 
 youth, flew up-stairs. In an instant he was abstract- 
 ing the key from the door of the chamber hung with 
 cramoisi. He looked to see if there was any other 
 way of fastening the door, and congratulated himself 
 on finding none. 
 
 And how could he appear before the girl at the tea- 
 table agitated, distressed as he was ? He walked along 
 the corridor to his own room, he examined his pale face 
 in the toilet glass, he set his hair in order, but his 
 heart beat now with suffocating violence, and he felt 
 that he must have some stimulant, something to sup- 
 port his weakness, otherwise his looks, his manner, 
 would betray the suffering indignation bade him for 
 the present hide. He returned to the dining-room ; no 
 one was there. He seized on the brandy in the side- 
 board, he poured out a whole glass and drank it down. 
 Ere long he was so far recovered, he thought he might 
 venture to face the hapless girl. 
 
 "Something has been the matter, has there not?"
 
 2o8 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 she asked, as Sir Charles entered the room, where 
 wearily she was sitting by the tea things. 
 
 "Yes, I have been called upon, in my capacity of 
 magistrate, to investigate a very unpleasant affair." 
 
 "Will you tell me about it?" inquired Helene, 
 affecting an interest she did not feel, and glad of any- 
 thing to talk of, so foreign, as she thought, to her own 
 affair. 
 
 " No, it will not do exactly to relate to you,'"' 
 answered Sir Charles in a tone and manner half play- 
 ful and full of meaning. 
 
 " Oh, if it is anything improper," cried the young 
 girl, " of course I do not want to be told." 
 
 " Well, it is very improper." 
 
 " Won't you have your tea ?" she continued, pushing 
 a cup towards her Saint, and it did strike her as some- 
 what strange, that eager as her companion usually was 
 for his tea, this evening he seemed to be scarce 
 conscious that it was long past his usual time. 
 
 " Yes, of course," he answered, taking the proffered 
 cup ; but his manner, despite his utmost efforts, was 
 vague and strange. He felt certain that it must be so, 
 and to excuse any appearance of distrait, he added, 
 " I shall have to examine into this unpleasant business 
 more closely ; I shall have to think it over, to see if I 
 thoroughly comprehend. If I do not return to wish 
 you good -night, you will know the occasion, the reason 
 of my absence." 
 
 " Why should it worry you so ?" asked Helene, 
 wholly unsuspicious of the truth. " Is it a murder ? 
 You can tell me that at least."
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 209 
 
 " It is not a murder, but an accusation of theft," 
 
 " How can that be improper ?" cried the girl. 
 
 " Love," answered he, " the frailty, the falsehood of 
 a woman mingles strangely in the matter. I am going 
 now to ponder over the evidence. Good-night, shall I 
 say ? It is past nine, at ten you go to bed." 
 
 " Yes, but as you will be no longer here, I shall go 
 to my room at once. I shall sit quietly by the open 
 window ; the cool evening air will do my headache 
 good." 
 
 He held out his hand in silence, he tried to seem 
 natural, and in the shadowy light of the summer eve, 
 for the tall waxen candles stood unlighted yet, the 
 girl did not observe the ashy paleness of her patron's 
 cheek. 
 
 vol. 1.
 
 CHAPTEE XXL 
 
 We have once before compared the attachment Charles 
 Danbigny felt for Helene to that that George Selwyn 
 felt for his Mie Mie. Those who have read Selwyn's 
 letters will well remember the misery, the torment 
 Selwyn endured when about to be separated from the 
 child. — the tenderness, the constancy of his love after 
 her departure. 
 
 Those of my readers who have been bold enough to 
 dive into the Confessions of Eousseau, will be able to 
 comprehend me, when I say that now our poor master 
 had had added to his previous burdensome attachment, 
 love of another character, — such a love as the great 
 philosopher has recorded that he himself felt for his 
 Sophia. 
 
 Eousseau was forty when he was stricken, as it were, 
 by a passion, at once, as he tells us, so exalted, so 
 intense, so holy, so sweet, that all that he had deemed 
 to be love before was blotted from his memory by this 
 later, this soul- absorbing influence. 
 
 Eousseau had tried to repress, to conceal his torment. 
 Our master, astounded at his own frailty, determined, 
 at whatever cost, to keep it a secret in his own aching 
 heart.
 
 Otir Little Gipsy. 2 1 1 
 
 But let us proceed with our story. Regardless of 
 the delicacy of his health, regardless of taking cold, at 
 ten o'clock this hapless night Charles Daubigny goes 
 forth and ensconces himself in a shady nook amid the 
 trees upon the lawn, whence, unseen himself, he may 
 yet behold the trysting of the lovers. 
 
 How full of anguish is his soul ; how overwhelmed 
 is he with mingled anger and with sorrow ! ■ He could 
 not even now, as heretofore, beseech Heaven to grant 
 him peace and resignation ; he feels that he is too 
 wroth, too frail to dare to lift his eyes to the starry 
 canopy stretching in glory above him. 
 
 How long, how almost interminable seemed the hour 
 that thus in suspense he waited ! How dirge-like 
 sounded to him now, as it floated by, the chime of the 
 old monastic clock, — that clock, that presently as it 
 strikes, shall seem to sign his death-warrant ! Ah ! 
 now it chimes again, now it strikes eleven ; and, even 
 as it strikes, he hears a rustling amid the evergreens. 
 Oh ! terrible moment, worse than death, bringing with 
 it the death of hope, awaking, confirming all suspicion. 
 
 Trembling with jealous fury, our poor master sees 
 his nephew, at least he sees a dark figure emerge from 
 the shrubbery and proceed towards the house. Nearer, 
 nearer steals this dark figure, until it reaches the 
 gravel walk before the orangery. He hears a shrill 
 low whistle, and he sees the girl, whose window had 
 purposely been left open. Yes, he sees the girl appear, 
 her white dress floating round her ; yes, he cannot be 
 deceived. He sees his Helene standing on the leaden 
 roof above, his nephew on the gravel walk below.
 
 2 1 2 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 Sir Charles, screened by the leaves, by the tangled 
 ivy foliage around him, from the sight of either culprit, 
 is yet near enough to the orangery to overhear the 
 greater part of the following dialogue : — 
 
 "La nuit est suffisamment obscure pour que les 
 Eusses ne nous voient pas. D'ailleurs, il faut toujours 
 compter sur sa fortune." 
 
 " Why do you speak to me in French, in this light 
 manner ?" asked the girl in sharp and hurried accents ; 
 " mocking me, as it were, when I am ready to die of 
 fear lest any one should see us." 
 
 " Can you not recall that ? That is the first piece of 
 French you ever gave me to read ; thus it is stamped 
 for ever on my memory. But, Helene, were my neck 
 under the guillotine, I should still speak what you call 
 lightly. I could smile, I could jest even in the hour 
 of death ; and this, dearest, this is my hour of death, 
 nay, it is worse than merely dying, for there is the 
 future, the hereafter. When I lose sight of you, 
 Helene, perdition, hell, will be my portion." 
 
 "You will presently forget me," answers the girl. 
 " In the great world to which you belong, another face, 
 another form, will attract; the loneliness, the pain, 
 will be for me." 
 
 " Helene, I shall never change. Whatever you may 
 hear of me, whatever I may be compelled to do, still 
 nothing can tear you from my soul. Had I been able, 
 had there been a chance for me, I could have mended 
 yet of my evil ways. With you, Helene, by my side, 
 I had had an interest in myself that I can never feel 
 without your presence, your approval. Helene," he
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 2 13 
 
 continued, " you do not yet know all, you do not know 
 the worst; you do not know that long before I saw 
 you I had sold myself to the devil."' 
 
 "What can you mean ?" hurriedly asks the girl. 
 
 "Yes, as good as that. I was thrown, by my 
 mother's contrivance, very much in the way of an 
 orphan gal with thousands a year. I played the fool 
 with her. I made her an offer. She accepted me, but 
 her uncle, her guardian, objected to my character or to 
 my habits. The gal would not give wholly in, and it 
 was finally arranged that a year should pass in which 
 we were not once to meet. That year is over. We 
 have never once met, we have had no correspondence. 
 I had hoped, I tried to believe that she had forgotten, 
 that she had been prevailed upon to give me up. But 
 from a letter I have received, a letter of my mother's, 
 too horrible, too sickening to read, I strongly suspect I 
 am booked, hooked, snared, — my days, as it were, 
 numbered. I assure you I am more than indifferent 
 to the gal ; I never cared for her in the least. I saw 
 you, Helene, and for the first time in my life I loved." 
 
 " You have erred greatly," murmured Helene, with 
 almost a faltering voice. " You should not have stayed 
 here." 
 
 "I could not go, I was spell-bound. There was a 
 fascination I could not resist. Cost 111 e what it will, I 
 can never regret that I came, that you floored me." 
 
 " Go," said the girl sadly, yet somewhat haughtily, 
 " go now, leave me. Every instant that you stay is 
 but a treason against her, is but adding to your sin." 
 
 " I am going ; you know that I must go ; my leave is
 
 214 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 up. But, Helene, do not condemn me ; show me some 
 compassion. This is our last hour, this is my last hour 
 of life, of love. Let me but touch your hand, let us 
 not part for ever, part so coldly and so cruelly." 
 
 ( '- It is well," answered the girl, "that our interview can 
 be only such as it is. I am here, and here you cannot 
 come ; and I will never, never descend into the garden." 
 
 " Let me come to you, Helene." 
 
 " What," cried she, " dare you ask it ? Through my 
 bedroom ? Go, speak to me no more." 
 
 " There is another way. Indeed I never dreamt of 
 coming through your bedroom. Hear me. Will you 
 listen? In the orangery is a ladder, it is always there. 
 I can come on to the leads easily by that." 
 
 The girl said, " No," but as he pleaded more and more 
 her no's grew fainter, and Sir Charles at length saw 
 the sinner enter the orangery door. 
 
 Instantly St. Louis quitted his ivied nook. Gliding 
 noiselessly along, he gained the house unseen. He fled 
 up-stairs. He was in the ante-room of the chamber 
 hung with cramoisi ere Tresham had planted the ladder. 
 Cautiously our poor master opens the chamber door. 
 There is no light in the room save that small or rather 
 subdued light coming from the shaded night-lamp. 
 He sees the girl on the balcony. There was not a 
 moment to spare. Advancing stealthily but rapidly 
 towards her, ere she is aware of his presence, he lays a 
 burning trembling hand on her arm. " Miss Graham," 
 lie says, and he tries to speak in cold and measured 
 tones, " Miss Graham, I have suffered this scene of 
 levity and indiscretion to proceed so far, further I
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 2 1 5 
 
 cannot allow it to proceed ; I cannot longer stand by 
 a passive spectator. As your temporary guardian, in 
 your father's absence, I feel bound to interfere. To 
 have my nephew alone with you on this roof, and in 
 the dark of night, is incompatible with your honour." 
 
 It would be impossible for me to describe Helene's 
 sensations as thus suddenly she felt St. Louis's hard 
 pressure on her arm, as she heard his formal but indig- 
 nant words. Mingled shame, regret, amazement, re- 
 morse, sent a piercing thrill through her heart. Love 
 for the younger man at this instant seemed extinguished, 
 seemed to vanish under the sense, the shock, of her 
 own degradation and the cold displeasure of her patron. 
 
 As for Tresham, consternation and rage at being thus 
 defeated in his object were his first and strongest 
 emotions. But a minute or two later was added a 
 sharper pang. 
 
 " Go, scoundrel !" cried his uncle ; " go as you came, 
 instantly, or I feel that I shall grow too much exas- 
 perated to carry myself towards you as a gentleman 
 and a Christian. Henceforth we are strangers. You 
 have taught this unhappy girl to be false and treacherous 
 as yourself." 
 
 Pale as the moon that at this moment beamed fitfully 
 upon them were the countenances of the uncle and the 
 nephew. Hatred had now established itself betwixt 
 them. The younger man answered nothing. He had 
 no defence to make. He had no alternative but silently 
 to depart, since Helene had passively resigned herself 
 to the commands, the authority of his uncle, who aided 
 her tottering steps to re-enter the chamber window.
 
 2 1 6 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 The girl trembled so, she was really unable to stand 
 without support, and having once gained her room, 
 sank down half-fainting on the floor. She sank or cast 
 herself down, close by a great cushioned chair. The 
 cushion served at once as a resting-place for her head, 
 and also served to screen her blushing and her tearful 
 face. 
 
 Sir Charles meantime, agitated and incensed to the 
 last degree, unable to command his temper, paced the 
 great chamber with hasty strides, bestowing many cruel 
 and even sarcastic remarks upon his companion. At 
 length he let fall on her almost bewildered senses the 
 following amiable declaration : " No time, no penitence, 
 no circumstance, can undo what has been done. Nothing 
 can wipe away from my memory this clay's, this night's 
 indiscretion, treachery, and misconduct." Then sud- 
 denly, as if more and more impassioned, he exclaimed, 
 as he paused and gazed upon her, " Great God ! if I had 
 not been providentially, as it were, watching over you, 
 to-morrow's sun might have risen upon a lost, a fallen 
 creature." 
 
 The girl, who hitherto had listened in silence and 
 submission to the bitter words dictated by passion, by 
 jealousy, by disappointment, now started up from her 
 recumbent attitude disdainful and defiant. 
 
 " I cannot mistake your meaning," she cried, while 
 her tears fell fast and thick. " I have read such expres- 
 sions in books. You class me with the low, the base, 
 the sensual." 
 
 " Nay," cried he, resuming his sarcastic tone, "I have 
 not said thus much. You may be all that is artless
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 2 1 7 
 
 and unsuspecting. Does the eagle tell the lamb when 
 and where it will make its deadly swoop? Does the 
 robber warn the owner when he meditates carrying off 
 some precious jewel ? Hapless girl, answer me if you 
 can, Why did he seek to climb your balcony?" 
 
 " Merely," retorted Helene indignantly, " merely for 
 the last time to touch my hand." 
 
 " And he to whom you had granted so much more 
 in the morning — he who was allowed to sit with his 
 arm around your waist for a whole hour, — would he 
 have been content with only such poor token ?" 
 
 As Sir Charles uttered these last sentences, the girl 
 gave a kind of amazed or hysteric cry. " Oh," she 
 said, "can you have been so mean as to track my 
 steps ? " 
 
 " Never/ 5 retorted he. " Hear me, and tremble at 
 Heaven's merciful interposition. The supposed culprit 
 who was brought before me this evening had lain con- 
 cealed amid the rushes by the rocks. Do you recognise 
 this?" continued he, showing her the locket. 
 
 The girl once more cast herself down whence she had 
 arisen, and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 "Is not this substantial evidence, eh?" continued 
 Sir Charles. " Thepoor lad picked it up, Miss Graham, 
 where you by an unfortunate mischance lost it. It fell 
 from his pocket in his scuffle with the keeper, who 
 found him trespassing, found he had been fishing where 
 he had no right to fish. Happily for yourself, the little 
 scene you enacted this morning will not spread. Im- 
 mediately I saw the locket, I felt but too certain. The 
 lad, with a feeling of decency and discretion unusual
 
 218 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 in people of his class, did not betray you. He would 
 not tell the keeper. It was only when he was shut in 
 with me, when he knew of my — my terrible interest, 
 when he saw how deeply I suffered, that he told me. 
 Wretched girl, you have been, I repeat it, on the very 
 brink of a precipice, you have been within an ace of 
 destruction." 
 
 " I will not bear this," cried Helene, wildly starting 
 up ; " harm could only have befallen me by my own 
 will and act." 
 
 " I know not that," retorted her angry Saint. " I 
 know not to what length, to what subtleties the de- 
 signing villain might have resorted. You know him 
 not. A hundred times it has been in my mind to tell 
 you a sad, sad story, but I thought you too sinless, 
 too delicate-minded, too holy, to need such warning. 
 You have proved yourself to be so far beneath my 
 estimate, that, without apology, I will repeat, relate a 
 fact which your lover, Miss Graham, treats as a mere 
 bagatelle. 
 
 " My sister-in-law wanted a governess. She is not 
 fond of paying large salaries. She heard of a young 
 lady, accomplished and elegant, whose father had died 
 suddenly, and left her with scarce a pittance to exist 
 upon. The girl craved but a respectable home. She 
 would give her time, her accomplishments as requital. 
 My sister-in-law engaged her. My nieces became 
 sincerely attached to their companion. But she was 
 too young, too fair. Your lover, Miss Graham, cast his 
 amorous eyes upon her, and from that moment she 
 was doomed to destruction. I will not trouble you
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 219 
 
 with the details of the story. I will not tell you of his 
 subtlety, his perseverance, the ceaseless pains he took 
 through many months, nay, for more than a whole year 
 — I think a year and a half — " Sir Charles paused a 
 moment here, as if doubtful how, in what words, to add 
 the rest. Again he spoke : " She fell, yes, at length, 
 a sacrifice to what, I presume, he would call his passion, 
 and I have been supporting his hapless victim and her 
 child for a very considerable time." 
 
 " And dare you, sir," exclaimed Helene, covered with 
 beautiful confusion, " compare me to this lost, this 
 fallen creature ? Do you dare to class me with a 
 designing governess who sought to ensnare her pupils' 
 brother? Leave me," cried she; "go, never let us 
 breathe the same air a^ain." 
 
 " We shall breathe the same air but for a very few 
 minutes longer. I go, but remember that this girl 
 you so despise was a better girl than yourself. She 
 laboured patiently, she bore her hard lot without 
 repining. He succeeded only by a base, a cruel 
 stratagem." 
 
 "No doubt she said so, but why should you, sir, 
 defile your lips by repeating such a story ? Why 
 should you insult me by placing such a disgusting 
 fact before me ? Go out of my room." 
 
 u Wretched rirl " cried Sir Charles, " take heed, take 
 heed ; the proud, the confident are most unsafe. Child," 
 he added, with now a faltering voice, "thy mother 
 never thought to fall ; she would have spurned the 
 thought ; and has she not descended to the grave in 
 shame and in dishonour ? She was lovelier, more
 
 220 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 refined than yourself. She was of a lineage spotless, 
 noble, and, alas ! when temptation close beset her." 
 
 " Go," cried Helene, " instantly. Never let me hear 
 the sound again of a voice I shall loathe for ever. 
 Words, words you have uttered to pierce and to destroy, 
 yes, to blast, to wound incurably." 
 
 " I obey you," retorted Sir Charles. " I will go 
 wander in the garden until dawn. I cannot hope for 
 rest. And for yourself, oh, miserable girl ! what have 
 you done ?"
 
 CHAPTER XXIT. 
 
 Graham was descended from a race of Scotchmen 
 which had been warlike, haughty, and intractable. 
 Graham himself, in his earlier days, had been haughty 
 and intractable. Even now, occasionally, his nature, 
 despite all effort on his part to suppress it, would 
 appear. 
 
 Helene provoked, Helene detected, Helene deeming 
 herself in some measure unjustly accused in the scene 
 we have last narrated, to use a vulgar phrase, proved 
 herself to be a chip of the old block. Her beautiful 
 eyes, even through her tears, had flashed forth their 
 rage. Her stature for the moment had seemed greater 
 than usual ; her nostrils, the arches of the Gipsy nose, 
 were dilated. 
 
 Sir Charles had seen what it was to provoke a 
 Graham to the last degree, and when her Saint was 
 gone, anger, disdain upheld her still. She it was 
 who now, with hurried steps, paced the great chamber. 
 Again and again, it is true, she flung herself down and 
 wept, but her tears were rather tears of anger than of 
 penitence. 
 
 Towards morning, exhausted by her agitation, she 
 undressed, went to bed, and fell asleep. It was the
 
 222 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 waking, the cruel waking from these two or three hours 
 of feverish slumber, that brought the girl to her senses. 
 In the confusion of her mind she had forgotten to let 
 down the heavy window-curtains of cramoisi, conse- 
 quently when she awoke every object in the room was 
 visible. To look around the great chamber and 
 remember how she had driven thence one who until 
 that single hour had shown her such constancy of 
 affection, such unwonted tenderness, who from the first 
 had used a courtesy towards her man seldom uses to a 
 mere child in years, was startling and terrible. Her 
 own faults, her own duplicity began to rise as accusers, 
 and groaning, she hid her blushing face in her hands 
 and wept bitterly. Hope, however, was not extinct. 
 Sir Charles would not maintain his severity ; he would 
 be in the house, they would meet, she would submit, 
 and he would pardon. 
 
 But with all this sorrow at her heart the girl could 
 not attempt to say her prayers ; no, she did not. She 
 rose and dressed. What should come next ? Would 
 her Saint's heart melt towards her ? Would he send a 
 tiny note — a message ? Dared she go to the breakfast- 
 table unless he first held out the golden sceptre, with- 
 out any token of his mercy?" 
 
 Thus she debated, when the chamber door opened 
 and Mrs. Bird put into her hand, not the little hoped- 
 for note from Sir Charles, but a large-sized letter 
 from Graham to Sir Charles, which Mrs. Bird said 
 had come from the post scarce an hour before. " Sir 
 Charles sends it to you to read, Miss Helene. He 
 tells me that your papa returns to-night. Sir Charles
 
 Ou r L it tie Gipsy. 223 
 
 has had an early breakfast ; he is obliged, he says, in- 
 stantly to leave for London on business of importance." 
 
 "He is not actually gone," faintly, tremulously 
 asked the amazed girl, and, at the first instant, she had 
 half a mind to fly down to him and beseech a moment's 
 delay. 
 
 "I left him at the hall-door, Miss Helene ; the 
 carriage was coming round ; he bade me carry the 
 letter to you. I asked if there was any message. My 
 master said, ' None,' and turned away." 
 
 Helene's room, as we have before described, was at 
 the side of the great house ; thus she had heard no 
 sound of the carriage approaching in the front. 
 
 "None!" repeated the stricken girl, and turned 
 away. " Can he be really going to leave me in this 
 heartless manner? Can he be so cruel?" and now, 
 instead of thinking of rushing down to him, as a 
 minute before she had thought of doing, pride, pique, 
 irresolution intervened, and the opportunity, the possi- 
 bility of reconciliation was lost. 
 
 For Mrs. Bird, who had gone to satisfy her own eyes, 
 presently returned, saying, " Miss Helene, my master 
 has gone. I saw the carriage drive from the hall-door." 
 
 On hearing these words the hapless girl, who had 
 gone out into the corridor, fled back into the great 
 chamber, and threw herself on to the bed. A desolation 
 was in her soul, a chill ran through her young veins. 
 She murmured crazily again and again, sometimes in 
 French, sometimes in English, " Great God ! what have 
 I done ? He was my Heaven, — all Heaven. Eve 
 driven out of Eden was not more wretched than I.
 
 224 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 Oh, like her, I shall find but sorrow now, but briers 
 and but thorns." 
 
 She rose from the bed and sought to lock the door, 
 that she might be secure from intrusion, but the key 
 was gone, and presently Mrs. Bird came gazing upon 
 her, asking if she were poorly, if she would not have 
 breakfast, if there had been any difference between the 
 master and herself. 
 
 But Helene answered nothing. Then Mrs. Bird 
 brought a cup of tea, and the tormented girl harshly 
 bade her go. But instead of going Mrs. Bird persevered 
 in her efforts. "Have you read your papa's letter?" 
 she asked. This question had a wonderful effect, 
 especially as the old dame added, " He will be here, 
 Sir Charles said, before night." 
 
 How fast fell Helene's tears anew ! they fell faster 
 and faster as she thought of the loving heart that was 
 longing to press her to it, as she thought of the rigorous 
 self-command she must summon, she must exercise to 
 keep her George in ignorance of her misery, in ignorance 
 of its cause. 
 
 " He must never know," she murmured, " never. I 
 could not be so cruel as to wound his broken heart 
 anew. Oh, I will strive, I will try to bear all— every- 
 thing for his sake."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 That meeting might have made a picture of rare 
 beauty, — Graham, so noble-looking, so handsome, em- 
 bracing the heart- stricken girl. Stricken she was, 
 her spirit bowed beneath a weight of self-reproach, her 
 heart beating tremulously, unsteadily, under such 
 variety of excitement. The bloom on her cheek was 
 subdued. The lips, usually rosy-red, were paler, her 
 hands were chill. She was waiting beneath one of 
 the fine old cedars at Avonmore to welcome him. 
 Hastily he quitted the dog-cart that had been sent to 
 meet him. "Without giving himself time to examine 
 his child, his arms were around her, his lips pressed 
 to her forehead. But this first embrace over, he gazed 
 upon her with anxiety and surprise. 
 
 " You are not well, Helene ?" 
 
 J' Not quite," she answered, casting her loving arms 
 round him, and resting her head upon his shoulder; 
 " but I shall be now, for you are here." 
 
 "And have you been ill and never told me?" 
 
 " No. I have been well, quite well. It is nothing," 
 she said, and together they entered the house. 
 
 Graham had had a long fast. He was hungry ; he 
 wanted his dinner. Hastily he went to the room Mrs. 
 
 vol. I. p
 
 226 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 Bird had apportioned him, set himself in order, and 
 came to the dinner-table. 
 
 " And so Sir Charles left this morning," he said ; 
 "not, however, as Mrs. Bird tells me, till he knew I 
 should be here to-night. Some business, she says, 
 called him away." 
 
 " Yes," answered the culprit, thankful that her 
 father was too much engaged with his fish and its 
 sauce to notice the blush she felt heightening her 
 colour. 
 
 Quickly she managed to change the subject of 
 discourse. 
 
 " How well, papa, you are looking ! It does me good 
 to see you. It was that nice warm climate." 
 
 " Not exactly that," answered Graham, " but I have 
 had a run of good luck, or, as your Saint, Helene, would 
 say, a series of Heaven-sent blessings. One trouble 
 that used to haunt me incessantly is removed. I used 
 to think if I were to die you would be left portionless. 
 My aunt, I believe, will do all, more than I could 
 expect." 
 
 " And she is cured," said Helene, with a smile, 
 " and going to live?" 
 
 " Not cured ; but she may survive, certainly, some 
 time." 
 
 " And how do you know, dearest," murmured the 
 girl, as she rose from her seat and filled his tumbler 
 again with beer, for they had no Tummas to wait upon 
 them (he was gone off with his master), "how do 
 you know this grand old aunt may not change her 
 mind ?"
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 227 
 
 " She will not change her mind." 
 
 " Well," continued Helene, " this is one thing, one 
 piece of good luck ; but what else has come to pass ?" 
 
 w Something." answered Graham ; " I have stumbled 
 upon, almost in a miraculous manner, something that 
 I had almost ceased to think of." 
 
 " Let me hear," said the girl, her heart aching so, 
 she could feel no interest in whatever it might be. 
 
 " You know," continued he, " how you have seen me 
 poring over the Graham pedigree. You know there 
 was a date wanting — proof, in fact, of a certain John 
 Graham's marriage." 
 
 "Yes," said Helene. 
 
 "Well, I have gained clearer, I may say positive 
 evidence ; the doubt is removed." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! I do congratulate you," cried Helene, 
 " for I know this was a grievance. Shall I call you 
 my Lord ? " asked she playfully, for the light of glad- 
 ness beaming in her father's eyes for the moment 
 glossed over her own sadness. 
 
 "Some day, Helene, perhaps." 
 
 " And how was it, papa, that you never mentioned in 
 your letters either of these two lucky accidents ?" 
 
 " Would it have been very dignified, or very usual, 
 or very decent, to have paraded the sort of will my 
 aunt intends making ? And as to the other affair, 
 Charles Daubigny is the last man in the world I 
 should mention it to. He used to be very sarcastic 
 on the subject." 
 
 " I remember," said Helene, but she did not proceed. 
 She was afraid her remembrance might awaken some
 
 228 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 of the old unpleasant feeling between her father and 
 her Saint. 
 
 " Why do you stop ? Why do you not tell me ? 
 Something you remember Charles has said. Come, 
 I can listen even with a smile to whatever it may 
 be, I am so confident I can only be amused at his 
 criticisms." 
 
 " Well, then, if you promise to be amused I will 
 tell you. It was the evening I first met Sir Charles. 
 When we were alone in the saloon of the steamer he 
 did allude to the subject. He said you had always 
 been a proud man, and gave as one instance your 
 claiming a title, to which he declared you had no better 
 right than himself." 
 
 "Excellent !" cried George, a glow of colour height- 
 ening for an instant his complexion, an expression half 
 mirthful, half bitter, curling his finely-chiselled lips. 
 " If God does not hurry me out of the world, I will 
 prove the contrary to him yet." 
 
 " You are angry a little, after all," cried Helene. 
 
 " Not in the least. Charles is quite unable to com- 
 prehend my feeling. I have a great deal of feeling on 
 the subject. I hate to be baffled, defeated as I have 
 been. I hate to be the jest of the world. Success in 
 this case, though I lived but a month after, nay, a 
 week, yes, though I died the day after, success would 
 be ample reward." 
 
 " You do, dear, dear papa, think a great deal of it. 
 Ought you to be so excited?" murmured Helene, 
 and quitting her seat, she cast her loving arms 
 around him.
 
 Our Little Gipsy, 229 
 
 He sighed. At that moment a thrill of anguish 
 shot through his heart. The lovely girl who thus 
 hung over him would be debarred, even though 
 success crowned his future efforts. She could never 
 be Lady Helene. 
 
 We left Tresham Daubigny pale with rage and 
 mortification descending the ladder he had but a few 
 minutes before planted against Helene's balcony. 
 However much nature and passion urged him to linger 
 near and make yet another attempt secretly to see the 
 girl, he had not the power of following his inclination ; 
 his leave would presently expire, the longer leave he 
 had asked for, his Colonel had peremptorily refused to 
 grant. Moreover, a week had passed since his mother 
 had written commanding him immediately to return. 
 To defy his Colonel was impossible ; to further irritate 
 his imperious mother was a feat too hazardous even for 
 his audacity. 
 
 He must go — go by the mail when it passed near 
 Avonmore at one o'clock. And he went. He was not 
 conscious of it, but his uncle had some one waiting, 
 watching, to see that his precious heir-expectant really 
 did mount the box seat and depart. 
 
 We will not trouble our reader with Tresham's 
 ideas or sensations as he was whirled rapidly onwards ; 
 we will only say that, audacious, heartless as he was, 
 he yet, to the surprise of the jovial old coachman, with 
 whom, during his stay at Avonmore, he had had some 
 dealings and much discourse, — we will only say, to 
 the surprise of the coachman, he was silent, he was
 
 230 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 absent. His hands were idle as his tongue ; he never 
 touched the reins. 
 
 Leaving the mail, this almost forgotten vehicle of 
 other days, its burly driver, its smart little guard, we 
 will go straight to Augusta's boudoir, and hear what 
 passes there when her son presents himself. 
 
 " What can have induced you, Tresham," exclaimed 
 the lady, " what can have induced you to be so utterly 
 indifferent ? Pray, what excuse have you to offer ? Did 
 I not say in my letter that the old uncle had given in, 
 that the way was smooth, that you had but to urge 
 your claim V* 
 
 " I never read your letter further than the first line 
 or two." 
 
 "I am very much obliged to you for your candour ; 
 and will you, with equal frankness, be so good as to 
 explain why?" 
 
 " The subject disgusted me ; besides," he added with 
 a strange manner, a compound of sarcasm and sadness, 
 " I had not completed the work you sent me to do." 
 
 " You talk in riddles. What work did I send you to 
 do?" 
 
 " Did j'ou not bid me go watch my uncle and the 
 gal ? Did you not bid me place discord between them ? 
 Well, you dare not deny your own instructions, and I 
 only executed them to the letter the last moment of 
 my stay at Avonmore. Mother, you have your way ; 
 he told me I had made her false and treacherous as 
 myself; he has quarrelled with her as well as with me." 
 
 " Good heavens, Tresham !" cried Augusta. "What 
 new misfortune is this ? Quarrelled with you openly ?
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 231 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " You are the most luckless, the most unfortunate 
 person woman ever had for a son." 
 
 " I quite agree with you," answered he with the 
 utmost sangfroid. 
 
 "Just when I wanted him to help me to arrange 
 about your marriage, when I cannot see my way clear 
 unless he does." 
 
 " What a mercy, mother, if I have thrown an obstacle 
 in the way ! Do you think I want the little waddling, 
 twaddling goose ?" 
 
 " Can you not be serious for a moment, when there 
 is, as it were, a matter of life and death hanging over 
 you ?" 
 
 "Do you want me to be serious ? Do you want the 
 truth ? Hear it then. I loathe your little twaddling 
 heiress, and I do not believe that I can attempt to 
 chain myself up to her." 
 
 " Are you gone mad, Tresham, to talk in this wild 
 way ? something has happened. Great God, child, 
 what is it ? I have had my suspicions. You have not 
 entangled yourself with the girl at Avonmore ?" 
 
 " I have not entangled myself with the girl at 
 Avonmore," repeated Tresham slowly, sadly, dis- 
 tinctly. 
 
 " You have not." Augusta paused ; she dared not 
 speak her thought. " This quarrel with your uncle, 
 Tresham, tell me the worst." 
 
 " I have not ruined her, if you mean that, but I 
 believe my uncle would tell you that I was bent upon 
 her ruin, which on my soul is not true."
 
 232 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 11 Then you have been making love to her?" 
 
 " Of course I have. Was not that the very way to 
 cure the old fool if he had a weakness for her ? You 
 ought to thank me for having achieved a victory for 
 you, though, by God, it has cost me dearly." 
 
 "Indeed it has, if you have quarrelled with 
 him." 
 
 " Mother," said the young man, suddenly turning 
 towards Augusta with a strange sad smile on his lips, 
 his eyes not meeting hers, but cast down, " mother, it 
 has cost me more than that." 
 
 " You do not mean me to understand that you are 
 in love with such an insignificant little thing ? How- 
 ever," added the mother, with something betwixt a 
 sneer and a laugh, " if you do, 1 am not the least 
 uneasy ; your passion will not outlive the month." 
 
 " It will outlive my life," he murmured, sinking 
 down into a chair. " For God's sake, mother, get me out 
 of this horrible affair that you have planned." 
 
 " What ? What ? Yes, that you may marry a bailiff's 
 daughter." 
 
 " No," he continued, his eyes still cast down ; " no, 
 I shall never see her perhaps again, but I loathe the 
 idea of marrying the other gal ; I don't think I can get 
 through with it." 
 
 Hastily, as her son uttered the last words, Augusta 
 quitted the room. Returning almost instantly, she 
 cast down on a little table that stood before him a 
 heap of unpaid and lengthy bills. 
 
 " You have quarrelled with your uncle ; you will not 
 accept a fortune offered to you ? Why have you been
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 233 
 
 so abominably reckless ? Who is to settle these ? Where 
 is the money to come from ? " 
 
 With a hand that actually trembled, Tresham 
 turns over these lengthy accounts. " How came yon 
 with them ?" he asked. 
 
 " The people finding you were absent, have begun to 
 dun one. It is not to be borne, Tresham. You must 
 marry her ; there is no alternative." 
 
 " Let me sell out and go abroad. T would rather 
 wander in the backwoods of America free than live a 
 life of splendid slavery. Mother, do not urge me." 
 
 " I shall not cease to urge you," cried Augusta, 
 laughing ; " and as you have such a loving disposition, 
 you can amuse yourself with each lady by turns, only 
 secure the wife." 
 
 " Upon my soul, you are very clever, and you seem 
 disposed to be very facetious, but I am not in a jesting 
 humour." 
 
 " Not at this particular minute, but how long will 
 your melancholy hold ? I have promised the poor 
 little thing that you shall meet her this evening at 
 Mrs. Howard's ball." 
 
 "And why did you make this engagement for me ? 
 To-night, too ; I absolutely cannot see her to-night." 
 
 " Oh yes, you can. I shall accompany you." 
 
 " And do all the courting ? 'No, by God, I cannot 
 go. It 's no use trying to drive me." 
 
 "Tresham," cried Augusta, her beautiful eyes flash- 
 ing forth their rage, " Tresham, I will not be made a 
 fool of for the sake of a little country wench whom 
 you have chosen to take up with. I have had my
 
 234 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 suspicions, and in consequence I have considered, I 
 have thought the matter over before your arrival. 
 Mine is no hasty determination ; you were so dilatory, 
 so neglectful, I have had a whole week for considera- 
 tion. Go with me to-night, claim the good fortune 
 that awaits you ; I shall expect it, I shall even dress 
 before dinner, ready to accompany you. But refuse, 
 and I give you notice of my intentions, of my unalter- 
 able determination. Yes, in the event of your turning 
 your back on that, which is indeed a position, a future 
 you by no means deserve, and which comes to the 
 rescue almost as a miracle, no tenderness, no dread of 
 what the world will say shall arrest me in my course. 
 To-morrow I will write to the most urgent of your 
 tradespeople, your creditors. I will tell them that my- 
 self and your uncle have already done so much to assist 
 you, that we decline taking further cognisance of your 
 debts, that they may follow any course they choose. 
 You know me well. You know that I never say a 
 thing to you in private thus that I do not mean. Our 
 private interviews have been always confidential. You 
 have known me year after year enduring as woman 
 never yet endured. What have you not done that is 
 heartless and disgraceful? Did I not hush up that 
 terrible affair of the poor little governess ? Who but 
 yourself could have thought of ruining your own sisters' 
 governess ? Yet was it not / who kept it from the world ? 
 I who broke the horrible truth to your uncle ? Did I 
 not get him to bestow a pittance on the unfortunate girl, 
 on the child — your child ? Have I not again and again 
 had interviews with lawyers, with beggarly lawyers'
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 235 
 
 clerks even, on your account ? Have I not flattered, 
 told falsehoods, to serve you ? Had I not, years ago, 
 to send away my maid, whose loss I have never been 
 able satisfactorily to supply ? Xo, no ; I will have no 
 more forbearance. Take what fortune in her bounty 
 sends, or go and be a. jockey, a prize-fighter, a billiard- 
 marker, a tramp, a thief, I care not what. My door 
 shall be for ever closed against you. I will not know 
 you. My heart shall be as hard, as cold as stone. If 
 we should ever meet I would not recognise you." 
 
 " Mother," cried the wild young man, now pale as 
 death, " if you but knew ; but no, you cannot compre- 
 hend, because worldliness, ambition only is your god, 
 your guide. ~No, I will not say what — " 
 
 " You had better not," cried Augusta, turning im- 
 periously upon him, " if it concerns the bailiff's daughter 
 at Avonmore, whose ruin you doubtless did seek to 
 compass. Go, sir," she added, " and if you choose to 
 defy me, come not again into my presence. You shall 
 not even sit down at my table to-day. On the con- 
 trary, if reason prevails, you will find me at your 
 service." 
 
 Tresham rose from his seat. He gazed upon his 
 mother as he turned to depart. He could see deter- 
 mination not to be shaken in her look, her mien. As 
 he sought his room he murmured, " Helene, Helene, 
 there is indeed no help."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 And now let us return to Sir Charles. Agitated, 
 irritated to the last degree, a prey to the bitterest 
 grief, he had quitted Avonmore. So agitated, so 
 disturbed had he been, that not until he had travelled 
 some miles along the London road did it occur to him 
 how impossible it would be, in his present state of mind, 
 for him to meet any of his family or his acquaintances. 
 He determined to break his journey, determined when 
 he reached Gloucester there to put up for the night. 
 
 Eemember, reader, we are not in our story travelling 
 by railroad. At the time I write of there was no rail- 
 road even in contemplation in this part of the country. 
 People of rank, people of fortune, travelled in their own 
 carriages, changing horses every twelve or fourteen 
 miles at various well-known and well-provided hotels 
 and posting-houses. And no hotel was better known 
 on this particular route than " The Bell " at Gloucester. 
 
 Ah, young reader, " young rapid," you, at least, can 
 never have seen or been at " The Bell." And how few 
 grave and middle-aged people care to read stories such 
 as this I write ! Well, then, young rapid, for your 
 benefit 1 will describe its peculiarities. It was a house 
 old and vast. Rooms, chambers it had, large and
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 237 
 
 gloomy. Even at this distance of time I can behold 
 the chamber, the furniture of the great chamber in 
 which Sir Charles lay that next night. Dark sombre 
 green the carpet, dark faded green the rich brocaded 
 hangings of the venerable four-post bedstead. The 
 room was melancholy almost as the mind of its present 
 occupant. We have yet to speak of the situation of 
 " The Bell," and here was its charm. 
 
 The lofty chimneys of the hotel seemed almost to 
 intermingle with the spiral ornamentation of the 
 cathedral. You gazed out of your window on the 
 habitation of the dead ; you seemed to be inhabiting a 
 portion of their long, last home. I do not know it as 
 a fact, but should imagine that " The Bell " originally 
 had been a religious house attached to the cathedral 
 church. 
 
 Our poor baronet found a harmony with his sadness 
 in the interior of the cathedral. 
 
 When he had partaken of his slender repast he 
 strolled through the venerable building. He gazed on 
 the monuments, he wondered as he gazed whether the 
 occupant of each grave over which he trod had had a 
 destiny wretched as his own. His many thousands a 
 year he counted as nothing. His manors, his parks, 
 were but incumbrances. He only coveted the rest, the 
 oblivion of earthly sorrow that the dead had attained. 
 
 And night came, and the elder Daubignv sought the 
 gloomy chamber we have described. He undressed at 
 ten o'clock. He lay down in the great bed, but after 
 nearly an hour's sleeplessness he arose. He threw open 
 his window ; he gazed forth on the romantic scene so
 
 238 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 very near. It was a soft, a lovely summer night. The 
 moonbeams played on arch and spire. Suddenly the 
 brief sweet music of the cathedral's chime fell upon 
 his ear, then the great clock tolled eleven. Oh, what 
 recollection, what direful recollection the striking 
 clock awakes in his soul ! That hour — that hour that 
 the night before had extinguished hope, confirmed his 
 worst suspicions. Could he ever see eleven even in 
 print, could he ever hear the word pronounced again, 
 without a shudder? 
 
 Long, long Charles Daubigny sat at the open window, 
 lost in cruel thought, in very cruel thought ; for as 
 his first irritation and anger died away, self-reproach 
 began to mingle with his sorrow. Why had he not 
 expostulated before, instead of fiercely condemning 
 after? Why had he not prevented the wretched scene? 
 Why, in his rage, had he uttered words, told truths, 
 that now he felt ashamed to think of ? Had he been 
 mad, to act a part so wholly contrary to his usual 
 nature ? And now, when he thought of the girl's re- 
 sentment, when he thought of her indignation, his love 
 for her, his tenderness but increased. There could be 
 no acting, no artifice in that. But, alas ! there w r as the 
 one goading truth, never to be blotted from his memory; 
 she loved his worthless nephew. She had suffered him 
 to embrace her once. What, what might be in the 
 future ? 
 
 Eeader, have you ever felt such extreme depression 
 that the spirit seems unable longer to sustain its mortal 
 burden ? Have you ever felt a shrinking from man-
 
 Our L it tie Gipsy \ 239 
 
 kind, a desire only to be nothing, — no more a part 
 of onr artificial world ? Have you ever come to say, 
 Oh, God of Heaven, give me but a quiet grave ? 
 
 This state of feeling may arise from weak, from 
 failing health. The healthful and the strong can 
 scarcely comprehend the misery arising from such 
 utter prostration of spirit. Prosperity, the largest 
 fortune can have no charm for the man who feels or 
 fancies that his heart is broken. 
 
 Charles Daubigny was of so delicate a constitution, 
 he had so long been in what is termed declining health, 
 that it is not surprising this last mental shock should 
 have reduced him to despair, to utter indifference. 
 
 "The Bell" at Gloucester was the last place he 
 would have selected or elected to remain in. Yet 
 being there, the contemplation of moving onwards, the 
 idea of movement, of exertion, added to his misery. 
 For a couple of days he remained there inactive, in- 
 different, a prey to the deepest melancholy. One 
 circumstance, one consideration alone urged him to 
 exertion, to movement. To write and order his letters 
 to be sent to him at "The Bell" he felt to be 
 impossible. He was sensible, he was conscious that 
 the world would say that a man with a London 
 house, with a country house besides Avonmore, could 
 scarcely be deemed sane if he continued at " The Bell." 
 He had always been a martyr to sensitiveness ; he had 
 alwavs shrunk from inviting remark. 
 
 To his London house he felt he could not go at the 
 present time. To be so near a neighbour to his sister- 
 in-law was not to be thought of. Her searching glance,
 
 240 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 her shrewd suspicions, her questioning he could not 
 patiently endure. Moreover, he should not be able to 
 speak to her of her son, nor would he speak to him if 
 they met. Then he must go to Brierly, the country 
 house in which he did occasionally make some stay. 
 
 Ah, yes, at length he screws his courage up. He 
 bids the ever obnoxious Tummas order his carriage, 
 order post-horses to it. He rings for his bill. 
 
 Pale as a ghost, and sadder than a ghost, our poor 
 master steps into the luxuriously cushioned vehicle, 
 and leaning back, with closed eyes, with his thin wan 
 hands locked together, pressed hard together, he 
 journeys on, wishing the carriage were his hearse, 
 Tummas, the undertaker's man, carrying him to the 
 vault in Brierly Churchyard, where some of his dead 
 kindred already lay. The long, long journey, now 
 that he had once begun it, as he must continue to 
 exist, he wished were endless. Yes, shut into his 
 carriage he was free from intrusion ; he might indulge 
 in cruel reverie. Ah, how he hated the thought of 
 the moment when the carriage would be whirled up to 
 the hall- door at Brierly, and when he should have to 
 step out and move and speak like an ordinary mortal. 
 Sometimes during this lonely journey he had asked 
 himself, " Am I in my right senses ? Was I not mad 
 when I spoke to her as I did ? Helene, Helene," he 
 would murmur, "was it reserved for thee quite to 
 bring me to destruction?" 
 
 At length the dreaded end of the journey is accom- 
 plished. Our poor invalid sits and moves again amid 
 his own goods and chattels. Breakfast, luncheon, and
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 241 
 
 dinner are served to him with some degree of formality 
 and state ; for at Brierly is a grand old housekeeper 
 and a staff of servants. It is one of the rich man's 
 acknowledged homes ; but here there is no Mrs. Bird, 
 no kind old nurse to whom he could speak of his 
 ailments, and very, very weak and low, and rather 
 strange was our poor master getting. He wrote, how- 
 ever, to Augusta telling her where he was, where she 
 should send his letters. He wrote also to Graham. 
 
 One morning, nearly a week after his arrival at 
 Brierly Park, Charles Daubigny awoke, feeling so weak, 
 so exhausted, he began to think he must indeed 
 send for his London doctor. He is debating the point- 
 in his mind as he continues lying in bed, and he is 
 in bed this morning considerably after his usual time 
 of rising. 
 
 As he is not down at the customary time, the 
 officious Tummas, whom he retains about him merely 
 from a nervous dread that if he sent Tummas back to 
 his London house he might tell more than the master 
 cares should be known there, asks at the door, " Please 
 sir, shall I bring your letters up ?" 
 
 " By all means," answers the master, hastily rising, 
 unconscious that his reverie had been so lengthy. 
 
 Another minute and the fool enters with the letters 
 on a little silver waiter. Sir Charles seizes one which 
 he sees is in the handwriting of Mrs. Cyril, then bids 
 the fellow set the others down and leave him. 
 
 Our poor master has scarce read Augusta's letter a 
 quarter through, when his hand trembles so that the 
 delicately scented epistle nearly falls from it. Amaze- 
 
 vol. 1. Q
 
 242 Oicr Little Gipsy. 
 
 merit of mind for the moment almost overpowers his 
 little remaining strength ; agitation so disturbs the 
 beating of his heart. 
 
 The lady writes informing her brother-in-law of 
 Tresham's positive engagement, his approaching mar- 
 riage. She is sure this most fortunate affair, this most 
 unobjectionable match, will give as much satisfaction 
 to dear Charles as it gives to herself. Theu Augusta 
 enters upon her one great difficulty, namely, the want 
 of money. It is impossible, unless her dear Charles, 
 with his usual generosity, assists her, that the affair 
 can go on and come off creditably. 
 
 Sir Charles now remembered having heard that his 
 precious heir-expectant, after only a few weeks' in- 
 timacy with her, had made an offer to the little heiress, 
 that the girl's uncle and guardian had objected, that 
 he had forbidden any further intercourse between the 
 young people, and he had of course thought there was 
 an end of the matter, particularly he inferred so from 
 Tresham's reckless habits since. 
 
 It was a piece of news to our poor master almost 
 miraculous, a relief so unexpected, so totally unlooked 
 for. The darkness of despair seemed already some- 
 what alleviated ; a ray of light dawned for him amid the 
 surrounding gloom, and for the first time since that 
 night when the old monastic clock had told in sonorous 
 tones the hour of eleven, when hope was crushed, for 
 the first time since then his soul, his spirit, rose in 
 thankfulness to God. 
 
 So great, however, was his agitation, he was very 
 long in dressing, in composing himself sufficiently to
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 243 
 
 appear at the breakfast-table ; and so weak, so faint 
 he felt, no morsel could he touch of the savoury fare 
 set before him. A single cup of tea was all he took. 
 
 But breakfast over, sitting in solitude by the open 
 window, gazing on the lovely distant view, the nearer 
 verdure of the garden, the soft breeze playing on his 
 wan and wasted features, he began sensibly to revive ; 
 and oh, how delightful was the task before him of 
 writing to Augusta, of assuring her of his hearty co- 
 operation, of assuring that- want of money should be 
 no obstacle to the match. She had but to state her 
 ideas, her wishes. 
 
 And oh, how joyfully Augusta received her dear 
 Charles's answer ; she really this time had trembled to 
 make a demand so extensive as it must be. 
 
 But that which gave joy and hope to the mother 
 wrought but slow torture, penance on the son.
 
 CHAPTEE XXY. 
 
 More than two months of excessive weariness for 
 Helene had stolen away since the night so fatal to the 
 happiness of herself and Charles Daubigny. In all that 
 time she had heard absolutely nothing of the movements 
 of either the uncle or the nephew. Sir Charles wrote 
 occasionally, it is true, a few lines on matters of 
 business, in answer to her father's suggestions or re- 
 quests ; and once he had appended to his short letter a 
 postscript, stating that now he felt certainly better, but 
 that he had been feeling very ill. This was all Helene 
 had heard ; and perhaps this determined, this continu- 
 ous silence on the part of her Saint was worse to her, 
 was harder to be borne, than would have been even 
 words of reproach. Such silence seemed, as she thought, 
 to testify of an utter indifference. The girl's spirits 
 were completely tamed down ; her steps, when unseen 
 by mortal eye, had grown slow and sad ; they no longer 
 danced like the sunbeams. The rosy bloom on her 
 cheek was subdued ; her pretty little lingers were fast 
 losing their sunburn, and she always quite forgot now 
 to adorn them with her mother's many rings. But so 
 intense was the love she bore her father, that for him 
 there was ever a smile. She was ever cheerful, ap-
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 245 
 
 parently cheerful when he was by. She was the sharer 
 frequently of his walks and drives. How did she study 
 to deceive ! How did she try to appear all that she 
 used to be ere he went away ! 
 
 For several weeks they had been re-established in 
 their cottage home, and rarely now did Helene turn her 
 steps or her eyes in the direction of the great house. 
 Pain, pain, pain, would be graven for her on cedar and 
 on orangery, and for the great chamber she once had 
 loved so well, that she hoped never more to enter or be- 
 hold. But for the love she bore her father, her daily 
 life, so uniform, so little varied, had been at this time a 
 life of perpetual gloom. Such love, however, induced 
 constant exertion, unremitting self-restraint. She 
 would not mar his returning happiness, or shall we call 
 it by the milder name of satisfaction ? She would not 
 lessen his dawning satisfaction. She saw that he was 
 really, since his return from France, quite an altered 
 man. His spirits and his health so improved. Yes, 
 with the certainty of independence of fortune before 
 him, with the expectation that his long-cherished claim 
 might yet be established, he seemed to have grown years 
 younger. The girl often silently gazed on her father, 
 and wondered in her heart how he could thus have 
 surmounted or buried his sorrow. 
 
 One morning about this time Helene went down to 
 the breakfast-table as usual. Graham was absent from 
 it. Early as was the hour, he had gone out riding, and 
 had not yet returned. He was trying a new horse, and 
 in the excitement of testing its capabilities, time or the 
 breakfast hour was forgotten. Lying by her father's
 
 246 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 plate the girl saw a letter. It was in the handwriting 
 of Charles Daubigny. She never presumed to open 
 her father's letters, so she sat gazing on the outside, 
 her heart, in spite of all her efforts at self-control, 
 beating at a quickened pace. 
 
 At length Graham enters. He sees the letter ; it 
 can be nothing but a business letter, muses he, as his 
 eye rests upon it ; he therefore takes his coffee beside 
 him, helps himself to ham, and begins cracking an egg. 
 
 Helene could patiently endure no longer. "Will 
 you just look at the letter, papa, please," she murmurs. 
 " He said he had been ill, you know." 
 
 " Oh, certainly," cried Graham, relinquishing his egg 
 rather petulantly. He was hungry, and a little jealous. 
 
 The girl sat watching her George's countenance as 
 silently he read his former rival's epistle. A smile, 
 half mirthful, half sarcastic, curled his lips ; and an ex- 
 pression to correspond spread over his fine features, and 
 presently he playfully exclaimed, " Your Saint, Helene, 
 is certainly coming out now. I have orders to get up a 
 public manifestation to testify of his singular felicity." 
 
 The girl might well grow pale, might well be silent 
 with amazement. 
 
 " Listen," continued George : — 
 
 " Deak Geaham, — I am sure you will allow that I am 
 not naturally disposed to ostentation and display ; but 
 in the present instance I do feel called upon to make 
 a decided manifestation. A matrimonial affair is about 
 to come off in our family, — a marriage as welcome to me 
 as it has been unforeseen ; and I am told, and indeed I 
 desire myself, that on the wedding-day there should be
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 247 
 
 a public rejoicing at Avonmore, as well as on my other 
 properties, that it may appear to the world how 
 entirely I approve of the match. 
 
 " You who, by report, must know something of my 
 nephew's character and habits, will doubtless be sur- 
 prised to learn that he is to be the hero of the day ; that 
 the prodigal is about to wind up his career of folly in a 
 manner as satisfactory to his family as it will be ad- 
 vantageous to himself. 
 
 " Tresham has, indeed, made a conquest of no small 
 importance. Xot only has he succeeded in gaining the 
 affections of a very amiable and unobjectionable girl, 
 but he will carry off with her a considerable accumula- 
 tion of ready money, and after their union will be in 
 receipt of some thousands a year. From this my 
 description, you will already have inferred that my 
 future niece is an orphan. She is, in fact, the only child 
 and heiress of the late Simon Da Costa, a merchant of 
 world-wide renown. 
 
 " The day named for the wedding to take place is the 
 10th of this month, exactly eight days from that on 
 which I am writing. And now, my dear Graham, I 
 have to ask at your hands a favour, which I assure you 
 I ask with very great reluctance, because you will 
 naturally feel, although you may be too polite to say it, 
 ' Why should I be troubled about an affair in which I 
 can take no possible interest? ' If I could have managed 
 without your assistance I would not indeed have asked 
 it, but I cannot see my way clear otherwise. More- 
 over, George, you do not despise the poor folk about 
 Avonmore, I know.
 
 248 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " What I want is, that the cottagers resident in the 
 village and elsewhere on the estate should have, accord- 
 ing to the size of their families, plenty of good meat, 
 ale, bread, and vegetables. Let there be no stint of food 
 or ale. Each wife, each married man to have not less 
 than a guinea apiece. The labourers who have no home 
 should have an equally good repast. They can dine 
 together at" the village ale-house; and shall it be ten 
 shillings each ? More if you please. 
 
 " And now for the better class — my tenant farmers. 
 Those who will condescend to come, should dine 
 together in the hall or dining-room of the great house ; 
 and if they choose, can get up for the evening a rural 
 ball, in which their sons and daughters may join. In 
 this case do not forget a supper. 
 
 " Tell Helene I know that she has no more taste for 
 entertaining village school children than myself. I shall 
 not, therefore, trespass on her time or her patience, but 
 shall write to Mrs. Bird about a treat for them. — With 
 many apologies, believe me ever yours most truly." 
 
 "What do you think of it?" cried Graham, as he 
 finished reading the letter, and cast it down on to the 
 breakfast- table. Without so much as looking at his 
 daughter, he took again to his egg and his ham. 
 
 Happy was it for Helene that her father was so 
 hungry after his ride as for the moment not to notice 
 her. She really dared not trust her voice to speak, but 
 stretched out a trembling hand to reach the letter. 
 She held it up, and commenced reading it to herself. 
 Here was an excuse for silence, while she might turn 
 to the light the better to examine it.
 
 Otcr Little Gipsy. 249 
 
 How much may an adroit, a quick-witted woman 
 manage to conceal ! Graham positively had never 
 suspected all or anything that had happened in his 
 absence. He was equally unsuspicious now, and pre- 
 sently continued his remarks. 
 
 " 1 have taught myself to fulfil the customary duties 
 of a bailiff" he said, with something between a sneer 
 and a smile, and looking quite my lord ; " I have 
 taught myself to fulfil the ordinary routine, the sort of 
 work any common fellow might do, but, upon my soul, 
 this commission is rather above my poor compre- 
 hension. Why, in God's name, can't the uncle Da 
 Costa, who, I know, still carries on the provisioning 
 business, why can't he send one of his clerks to see 
 to the hunks of meat for the villagers ? How am I to 
 order butcher's-meat by the hundredweight ? Well 
 (looking loftier still), well, we none of us know what 
 we shall come to certainly. Only imagine that 1, of 
 all men, should be the one selected to provide a 
 rejoicing for the felicity of Mrs. Cyril's son ! " 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Graham was in that 
 moment swallowing a second cup of coffee. But the 
 next was enlivened by another remark. 
 
 " Why, Helene," he said, " your Saint, with all his 
 instructions, has forgotten the bells, and the unfortu- 
 nate bell-ringers, who will certainly be at the last gasp 
 with exertion." 
 
 The girl thought she had sat long enough. She 
 dreaded another remark addressed just then to her- 
 .self ; so, softly she glided out at the French window 
 and escaped, to think over the news. Once safely
 
 250 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 out of her father's sight, shut into the pretty cottage 
 bedroom she called her own, and Helene's self-control 
 was gone. She wept a passion of tears; but how 
 impossible it would be to define the source, the 
 cause of these tears. Was it love for the prodigal 
 whom she had lost, or was it the loss of the elder 
 Daubigny's affection, which caused these impassioned 
 tears to flow ? Which circumstance of the two 
 inflicted the deepest wound ? We should say the 
 last. For of Tresham's utter worthlessness she could 
 not have a doubt, and that all worthless as he was, he 
 yet rebelled in secret against the destiny his mother 
 had provided, she knew not. But for the elder man 
 she had indeed the tenderest regard, a very deep 
 affection, compounded of sensations and sentiments it 
 would be vain to attempt to analyse or describe. It 
 was not, certainly, the same sort of tenderness that she 
 felt for St. Louis that she felt for her father. Some- 
 thing there was, or rather had been, in their intimacy 
 of a different character. All she knew was that Sir 
 Charles had loved her intensely, and having lost that 
 love, that love seemed more precious to her now than 
 when she carelessly or thoughtlessly had revelled in 
 the certainty of its continuance. To win back this 
 love, to hear Charles Daubigny once more call her his 
 hope, the anchor of his soul ; to look up and see his 
 great melancholy eyes fixed upon her as though she 
 were the only thing he loved or cared for, would be 
 sweet and welcome as a haven of rest would be to a 
 shipwrecked mariner. It would bring a heaven of 
 peace. Oh, what would she not give to regain all that
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 251 
 
 she had lost — lost, and for whom ? For one who, 
 perhaps, now laughed at her credulity, and only jested 
 over his brief hour of triumph. There was but one 
 ray of consolation, but one sweet thought amid all 
 these bitter reflections. She did believe the uncle 
 rejoiced over his nephew's expected marriage, because 
 it would place a barrier impassable betwixt herself and 
 Tresham.
 
 CHAPTEE XXVL 
 
 It was Tresham Daubigny's wedding-day ; but despite 
 all the advantages that would accrue to him on his 
 marriage, his heart was heavy and his blood ran chill. 
 He had been acting the lover for many weeks, and now 
 he w r as about to perform a part in his own marriage 
 ceremony. It was harder to marry when the heart 
 was not in it than it had been ever so falsely to 
 play the lover. It was the last act of the tragedy 
 extinguishing hope ; and when the news should reach 
 Avonmore, how despicable would he appear in Helene's 
 eyes ! What a contemptible wretch, to have sold him- 
 self; and ever and anon as the bridegroom dressed, 
 and after, as he waited for the moment when his 
 carriage should be announced, a vision, a bright vision 
 of Helene arose. How pale he looked ; how silent he 
 was ; how absent his manner ! 
 
 Augusta was seldom nervous, but on this his wed- 
 ding-day she watched her son with a kind of fear. 
 How would it end? Would the marriage be com- 
 pleted without some outbreak on his part ? Would he 
 reproach her ? Would he go to the church and say 
 never a bitter or an angry word ? She kept aloof. She 
 kept at a distance from her son. She almost shuddered
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 ~DJ 
 
 if his eyes rested upon her. She had never known till 
 to-day that all wild and reckless as Tresham was, he 
 yet could feel so deeply. She had fancied that he 
 would go lightly through the whole affair. She had 
 fancied (to use one of his own favourite expressions) 
 that he would treat it as a mere bagatelle. At length, 
 to the mother's infinite relief, they are inside the 
 church, now they are all kneeling. She hears him 
 repeat the marriage vow ; she knows that he is married, 
 but his hollow-sounding voice as he repeats the bind- 
 ing words, his pale pale face, his lips even pale, make 
 her heart ache, for Augusta is his mother, and though 
 wearied out with Tresham's recklessness, he yet is dear 
 to her still. 
 
 Mrs. Cyril had insisted on the impossibility of her 
 dear Charles, as occasionally she called her brother-in- 
 law, she had insisted on the impropriety of her dear 
 Charles being absent from the wedding. He had told 
 her of his failing health ; how day by day he felt 
 himself to be growing weaker, nearer to the grave. 
 
 " It is a mere imagination," she said, smiling. 
 
 He shook his head. " I have a cough, a new thing. 
 I believe I caught a cold. I really cannot be at the 
 marriage." 
 
 " Then you can be at the breakfast. Surely you can 
 do me that favour. Will it be w T orse for you to sit 
 for an hour in one warm room than in another ? The 
 girl will think that you have a contempt for her. She 
 is very sensitive I find. Her uncle, too, will certainly 
 have an idea that because he is in business you despise 
 him."
 
 254 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Nonsense," cried Sir Charles ; " how could I despise 
 a man for that ?" 
 
 " Well, people who have got rich by their own exer- 
 tions often do fancy these sort of things." 
 
 " I should be sorry indeed if this Mr. Da Costa or 
 my future niece should think me such a fool." 
 
 " Well, then," cried Augusta, " be present at the 
 breakfast. Show them your wisdom, your amiability. 
 Dear Charles, do not refuse me." 
 
 " I will think of it," returned St. Louis. And he did 
 think of it, and at length succeeded in conquering his 
 repugnance; he determined to be present at the 
 breakfast. 
 
 To conquer his disgust at meeting Tresham was, 
 however, impossible. They had never met since that 
 wretched night, and on this occasion Sir Charles 
 intended to avoid a direct encounter. 
 
 But now we must return to the wedding morning. It 
 is nearly one o'clock, and the friends and relatives of 
 the happy pair are assembling in Mr. Da Costa's 
 drawing-room. Sir Charles has arrived a quarter of 
 an hour before; he would not be thought proud or 
 unfeeling for the world. He has already been intro- 
 duced to Mr. Da Costa ; he has not only cordially 
 shaken hands with him, but he has said some very 
 kind things about the marriage. He has made the 
 acquaintance, too, of the innocent and hapless bride, 
 and has presented her, as he stands talking, with a 
 little jewel-case, containing a diamond and ruby locket 
 of considerable value. She is a little thing, with very 
 dark eyes and hair, and, in truth, does not walk grace -
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 255 
 
 fully ; but she looks bright and cheerful, and when she 
 is not walking, there is nothing unsightly about her. 
 The uncle is a good-looking hale man, also with dark 
 eyes and skin. 'Tis said they are of Portuguese ex- 
 traction. 
 
 In a large party, two people bent on avoiding each 
 other may manage to carry out their intention. Sir 
 Charles has not even glanced at his nephew while they 
 were up-stairs in the Da Costa's drawing-room. He 
 was not so fortunate at the breakfast. The centre of 
 the table then was occupied on one side by Augusta, 
 seated between her brother-in-law and Mr. Da Costa ; 
 the bride was placed exactly opposite Augusta ; on her 
 right hand, the chair next her was filled by her loving- 
 bridegroom. 
 
 Now was a trying time alike for the uncle and the 
 nephew. There was no evading an occasional glance, 
 and at length the eyes of the two men met. Tresham, 
 by his inherent subtlety, or by constant observation 
 during his residence under the same roof, had pene- 
 trated, or had been led strongly to suspect, the nature 
 of his uncle's attachment to Helene. Feeling very 
 much like a baited bear himself, fancying he could 
 read an air of triumph in his uncle's complacent 
 manner, he determined to send forth a poisoned arrow. 
 
 " Uncle Charles," he exclaimed across the table, 
 " uncle Charles, as you see me booked for a regular 
 Benedict, and you know I 've been a precious wild boy 
 in my time, you must drink with me to oblivion of the 
 past No more moonlight meetings, no more stolen 
 embraces. Here," he continued, calling to the butler,
 
 256 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " fill my uncle Charles's glass ; " and holding up his 
 own, he quaffed it down, certain there would be no 
 response from his tortured relative. 
 
 There was indeed none visibly, save in the moment- 
 ary flush that rose to the poor baronet's brow ; but the 
 allusion, the mockery of Tresham's tone and manner, 
 sent a thrill of pain through the master's whole being, 
 and brought back upon his soul, with renewed bitter- 
 ness, the memory of the girl's preference for the sinner 
 who confronted him.
 
 CHAPTEE XXVII. 
 
 Sir Gilbert Daubigny, who had furnished the tower 
 at Avonmore with its old monastic clock, had a perfect 
 passion for harmony. He had also bestowed upon the 
 village church a set of bells, capable of sending their 
 rich music through his whole domain. 
 
 And now to-day, upon his young descendant's 
 wedding day, the ringers send forth from Sir Gilbert's 
 bells rejoicing peals in honour of the glad occasion. 
 
 Graham's better feelings had prevailed, and he had 
 just left his cottage home to preside over the dinner to 
 be given at the great house to Sir Charles's tenant 
 farmers. Graham had nobly subdued his irritation, 
 his rebellious spirit, and had determined to perform 
 heartily, with right good-will, the duties of a steward. 
 He had called up his gratitude, he had thought of 
 the tenderness, the consideration with which Helene 
 had been treated; and though he did think Charles 
 Daubigny rather ridiculous, rather growing into an 
 old woman, he went forth now bent upon performing, 
 with his best ability, the duty required of him. 
 
 The girl took no part in the affair ; her mind had 
 been so agitated during the last week, had been so 
 long enduring the slow torture of constraint, that she 
 
 vol. I. R
 
 258 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 really was not well, and thus was exempted from 
 appearing ; no one, save Mrs. Bird, suspecting the real 
 source of her headache and depression. Ah, reader, 
 wilt thou behold our Helene now, this gala hour, 
 when all the village teems with mirth, when borne 
 upon the breeze come from afar, come from the village 
 green, shouts of merriment mingling with the deep rich 
 music of Sir Gilbert's bells, wilt thou behold her now ? 
 
 Graham gone, she seeks her pretty little bedroom, 
 and sits gazing out at the open window listening to the 
 distant voices, listening to the bells as peal after peal 
 breaks forth and floats by her on the soft autumnal air. 
 
 'Tis a lovely day for the time of year, the second 
 week of October. How beautifully blended are the 
 tints of the autumnal touched leaves, those leaves the 
 girl remembered to have watched last April, as day by 
 day, 'mid sunshine and 'mid shower, they had unfolded 
 and expanded ; and now they seem ready, waiting but 
 to fall and die. The turf in the park is strewn already 
 with their dying beauty, and the fern, the far-stretching 
 fern in the park, that that she had loved to see in the 
 spring arise amid the fine short turf, that too is tinted, 
 that bears token of its coming doom. 
 
 Oh, as Helene looks out on the garden near her, on 
 the undulating park that surrounds it, on the wilder 
 scenery of the vast forest beyond, there is something 
 soothing to her sadness, something congenial with her. 
 sorrow in this lovely but mournful autumn view. The 
 robin sings his shrill wild note a-near, the cawing rooks 
 are faintly heard, the wood doves from the mighty 
 forest trees utter forth their burring coo, the music of
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 259 
 
 the bells sweeps by, and tears, not impassioned tears, 
 but tears of sorrow, fill the girl's deep blue eyes and 
 steal down her fair young cheeks. She thinks over 
 her own strange destiny. She has discovered she is 
 but a child of earth, born unholy and unblest, with 
 none that she mav claim as kindred, disowned alike by 
 Grahams and by Vanes, a creature having no place in 
 the world. Then she thinks of Charles Daubigny, of 
 all his depth of tenderness, and how, and deservedly, 
 she has lost, she has forfeited it ; and fast and thick 
 her tears fall now. She turns from the window ; her 
 eyes rest on her patron's best and costliest gift, that 
 exquisite head of Christ which he had sent to adorn 
 her bedroom, and hourly to remind her of her Saviour's 
 never-failing mercy and His unwearying intercession. 
 Helene, by nature, was often, in her unpremeditated 
 and impulsive movements, graceful, picturesque, almost 
 theatrical. No mortal eye can see her, but she casts 
 herself down before the picture of that man acquainted 
 with grief. She calls on the Son of God, she' prays 
 Him, in mercy, in pity, to intercede on her behalf. 
 She prays with such intensity of feeling that her young 
 bosom heaves, her heart beats quicker than is its wont. 
 She asks that a ray, a beam of grace may rest upon 
 her ; she asks, if she may dare to ask so much, that 
 some good angel may watch over her ; she asks if it 
 may be possible for a return, a renewal of that earthly 
 love she had so idly cast away. 
 
 The girl's soul at length grows calmer ; her impas- 
 sioned tears cease to flow, and slowly and sadly she 
 saunters forth, goes wandering in the park amid the 
 many falling leaves.
 
 CHAPTEK XXVIII. 
 
 The excitement occasioned by Tresham's marriage 
 subsided, Helene's daily life became monotonous as 
 before the news reached Avonmore. A weight, how- 
 ever, seemed ever on her heart, a cloud seemed ever 
 hanging over her, but youth and health enabled her to 
 bear up under the cruel burden she had brought upon 
 herself ; yet how hard it was always to appear to her 
 father to be what she was not ! How hard was it to 
 have to bear so much mental misery without daring to 
 betray the slightest word of the cause ! How hard, 
 how difficult a task to keep from her father's know- 
 ledge that she and Sir Charles were at variance ! 
 Graham's spare time, happily for Helene, was so 
 occupied in looking through a mass of papers, with the 
 old or the former evidence given, produced in his 
 peerage case, he was so mentally absorbed in the cor- 
 rections, the additions to be made to this former 
 evidence, he was so buoyed up, so elated with the hope 
 of success, that Helene's quieter manner was not so 
 much observed by him as otherwise it would have been. 
 Graham's plan was to wait until fortune was secured 
 to him by his poor aunt's death. His determination 
 was to remain just as he was at Avonmore, pursuing
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 261 
 
 the avocations of a steward, until her departure to 
 another world should set him free. Meanwhile he 
 would prepare, he would consult, that immediately 
 after he became independent he might again urge his 
 claim. Thus Graham, in his monotonous country life, 
 with hope before him, was almost at rest, at ease, 
 while Helene, in the same monotony, but with no ray 
 of hope, in the most cruel ignorance and suspense, had 
 dismal dreams and restless nights, and mournful 
 reveries by day. 
 
 And winter came with bitter blast and falling snow. 
 The mountains, the Welsh mountains, in the distance, 
 snow-capped, glittered in the sun. Then next set in a 
 .sudden thaw. The waters of the Wye, the queen of 
 rivers, swollen by the rapid thawing of the mountain 
 snow, swept by in waves at hurrying pace, overflowing 
 many a cottage hearth, many a fair green sward, sub- 
 merging even the lowly rocky seat whereon our Helene 
 soft reclined when Tresham's arm embraced her. And 
 sadder in this dreary weather grew the young girl's 
 heart. So lomz it was since she had heard one word 
 of him she loved with such a depth of veneration. 
 "He was my Heaven/' how often murmured Helene ! 
 " He was all trut% all light I sinned ; he saw that I 
 was false ml wiel" 1, and his stainless nature has no 
 longer sympathy with mine ; but oh, his Lord, his 
 God had pity for the meanest and the worst. Will he 
 never look upon me more ? Shall I never hear his 
 deep-toned voice again \ Will his dear sad eyes ne'er 
 rest upon me with their fond, their anxious gaze 
 again ?"
 
 262 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Never," answered Helene, " never. The only friend 
 I had on earth, the only one that loved me, save papa, 
 I sickened, I disgusted. Oh, what a destiny is mine ! " 
 
 So mused the girl one dismal winter night, so mused 
 she through a weary wakeful hour. " And to-morrow," 
 murmured Helene, " the New Year comes ; to-morrow 
 it is January, and January will come again, but still 
 no dawn of light for me." 
 
 Next morning she arose, was dressed, was half way 
 down the stairs, when, from his bedroom door, her father 
 called. " Helene," he said, " I have had a letter this 
 morning ; they brought it up to me because immediate 
 was written outside it. I am afraid the news it 
 contains will disturb you as much as it disturbs me. 
 I am summoned instantly to Calais. It seems my aunt 
 took it into her head to return to England, and got as 
 far as Calais, when she was attacked by a new disorder, 
 taken fearfully ill, and desires that I come instantly to 
 her. Will you go with me, or will you stay with Mrs. 
 Bird ?" 
 
 " Neither," cried Helene, flying up the stairs to him, 
 " I would rather stay in my own home — here. I am 
 older now, and shall not want to be with Mrs. Bird ; 
 and as to going with you, uninvited, my presence 
 undesired — " and Helene's lips qi - Vj turned 
 
 away to hide her heartache. 
 
 " I wish," continued Graham, " you would go to Mrs. 
 Bird ; it is not at all fit for you to be left here alone." 
 
 " Well, I shall try, and if I feel miserable, I can but 
 ask her to have me." 
 
 "Helene," said Graham, as he went on hurriedly
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 263 
 
 packing his portmanteau, " Helene, I am certain there 
 is something different in your feelings to Charles 
 Daubigny from what there used to be. Once or twice 
 I have noticed some confusion in your manner when 
 I have mentioned his name, and now you object to 
 stay during my absence at Avonmore." 
 
 " There is nothing different in my feelings at all," 
 cried the girl, colouring deeply ; " he has been to me the 
 tenderest, the kindest — " She could say no more ; despite 
 all her efforts to restrain them, her tears gushed forth. 
 
 " Upon my soul," cried the poor steward, giving his 
 portmanteau an impatient kick with his very handsome 
 foot, " upon my soul, it 's too much. What with this 
 crazy woman at Calais, and you crying here, and 
 having this to do that I hate doing." 
 
 " Oh, papa," cries the girl, kneeling down by the 
 over-filled portmanteau, " I can do it best. This coat 
 must come out ; it 's too full, you must have a carpet- 
 bag as well." 
 
 " The devil is in it !" muttered George. Then pre- 
 sently reverting to his aunt, he said, " The poor 
 creature's mind is evidently wrong. What could, 
 were she in her senses, have induced her to move in 
 winter ? " 
 
 " Papa ; there, see, it 's all right," exclaimed the girl, 
 rising from the floor, where she had been kneeling. 
 " You will not mind having the carpet-bag as well. 
 But why don't you have some breakfast ?" 
 
 " Why don't I do a hundred things that ought to be 
 done before I go ? " 
 
 " But you must have some breakfast."
 
 264 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " A label must be written ; there are no initials, 
 nothing to show the portmanteau is mine." 
 
 " That you can do ; I am going to make the tea," 
 cried Helene, running off, thankful to escape without 
 further questioning. But now another vexation. In 
 answer to the bell the housemaid appears, declaring 
 the kettle does not boil. 
 
 "Then you must make it boil at once," retorts 
 Helene. 
 
 " Oh, Miss, that's cook's business, not mine." 
 
 " I will come myself and see," cries Helene, running 
 to the kitchen." " Papa must have some tea or coffee 
 before he goes." 
 
 " No one here," exclaims George, entering the empty 
 breakfast-room. " Women are all and always mad ! " 
 
 He rings the bell. Housemaid appears. 
 
 " The water ain't ready, sir." 
 
 "Tell Miss Helene I have but ten minutes, or at 
 most a quarter of an hour." 
 
 He had scarcely dismissed the maid when Helene 
 rushes in, teapot in hand ; the feat of water-boiling 
 and tea-making had been accomplished. 
 
 "Pray, papa, eat something," cries the girl, as she 
 pours out his tea. The poor steward shrugs his 
 shoulders. " Eat what — the loaf?" 
 
 Another ring. " Bring the eggs, Jane ; be as quick 
 as you can." 
 
 " The heggs, Miss, isn't quite ready yet, cook says." 
 
 " Bring me the cold beef," says George, a hand that 
 bore no token of his fallen lot impatiently touching 
 his moustache.
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 265 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and Mr. Lewis is a-waitin' in the kitchen, 
 sir ; you desired to see him, sir." 
 
 Up starts our harassed bailiff. He must give at least 
 some directions to Lewis, the gardener of long standing 
 at Avonmore, as to the wages to be paid on Saturday, 
 and various other little matters. The quarter of an 
 hour is wellnigh spent ere he returns ; but the ever 
 tender-hearted girl bethinks herself how she can make 
 sure he has some breakfast; she busies herself in cutting 
 for him a few sandwiches from the cold beef. 
 
 The cart is at the door, he must go. 
 
 " Papa, please take these few sandwiches," cries 
 Helena 
 
 He eyes them, he gazes on Helene with astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " My dear child," cries he, u did you ever know me 
 carry bread and butter in my hand ? I would sooner 
 starve." 
 
 He kisses her ; he is gone. 
 
 The girl cannot help shedding some tears as she 
 watches the dog-cart bear her ofttimes proud and dis- 
 agreeable George away. And yet, with all his faults, 
 how much she loved him ! 
 
 In the afternoon comes Mrs. Bird, begging our poor 
 troubled Helene to stay at Avonmore with her. 
 
 " It is very kind of you to come," answers the girl, 
 " but indeed I am quite old enough now to stay here." 
 
 Mrs. Bird shook her head. " Miss Helene," she said, 
 " you 'd be a deal safer with me." 
 
 " I really cannot come. Indeed, I must stay," 
 answered Helene.
 
 266 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 At length Mrs. Bird departs ; but it is evident she is 
 much hurt by Helene's rejection of Avonmore as a 
 place of refuge during her father's absence. The old 
 nurse took leave with a wrinkled brow, with a croaking 
 voice.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 It was a dreary winter day. The fog that hung dense 
 in the distant parts of the park hovered also round the 
 lowly-thatched cottage. Outside, the view had nothing 
 in it to cheer, and Helene sat gazing upon the only 
 bright thing visible, — sat gazing on the log-wood fire, as 
 it rose, now in blue, and now in rosy flames, upon her 
 little drawing-room hearth. The girl gazed upon the 
 fire. She sat by it as it were instinctively, but her 
 vexed thoughts were not of it, not relating to it. She 
 was thinking of trifles she abhorred ; she was thinking 
 of her miniature household, of her housekeeping. She 
 was thinking that everything was wrong, and that she 
 knew not how to remedy the nuisances that seemed 
 likely day by day to increase. Scarcely had Graham 
 been gone a week when the cook became rude if her 
 young mistress ordered, interfered, or came near the 
 kitchen. The housemaid had given herself airs before 
 Graham's departure. She was growing insufferably 
 flighty; and there were worse things, as Helene believed, 
 going on in the night than in the day. She felt sure 
 that she could hear the voices of men at the back-door 
 of the cottage after she had gone herself to bed. One 
 day she had run to the kitchen door to ask for a bit of
 
 26S -Link J./. 
 
 bread for a starving robin. The cook looked like 
 thunder.: : Helene could - standing 1 .-.ch 
 
 drinking his beer, an Avonmore keeper and somebc 
 buck-skinned groom. 
 
 Three creeks had passed since her fathers departure, 
 and she was realising all the mis :f her own 
 
 defenceless incompetr nc v. She began to think that 
 even cumbered with all the bitter recc" I :: would 
 
 bring, to be at the gre I h use luring the remain 
 of her fa the: 'a Le :lian 
 
 her present life. Thus mused our poor Helen 
 _ . i, without seeing them, on the glowing eml 
 thus nras when a little out-door sound attracted 
 
 her attention She looked out and saw a something 
 that brought ;-. scene of the st 1 smite her L 
 anew. She looked out to see Mrs. Bird driving in her 
 donkey- chair towards the _ The girl heaved a 
 
 bitter sigh; she rang the bell, ordered the maid to 
 find some one to go to Mrs. Bird and take the donl 
 to the stable : and opening the French window, and 
 running herself, she greeted the old dame, and told 
 her some one would come directly for the donkey. 
 
 Mrs Bird, I am so thankful you have come '.'' 
 re Helene's first words when once they were alone 
 together in the : ttage Ira wing-room. I sally 
 
 quite des then in a half whisper she added, 
 
 ■ The servants won't mind a word I say. and sometu 
 1 m juite sc 
 
 •■ A::. Miss Helene," oswered isean 
 gravity in her manner, "you'd a deal better come to 
 me. I've re son for calling I see you; it a no trine
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 269 
 
 brings me. I must have a long, long talk. There's 
 a deal on my mind. If you would but go back with 
 me." 
 
 " Is there anything the matter with any one ?" asked 
 Helene confusedly. She dared not mention Sir Charles's 
 name. 
 
 " Ay, my dear, a great, great deal the matter ; and 
 nothin' 'ull ever mend while you keep so proudly aloof." 
 
 " Proudly aloof !" echoed the girl. "What can you 
 mean?" 
 
 " He thinks so, my dear. His poor heart 's a-yearn- 
 ing for you, a-bleedin' for you. Oh, Miss Helene, he 's 
 a-goin' abroad ; the doctor orders him abroad, and be 
 sure, child, if once he ^oes he '11 never come back ao;ain 
 alive to us." 
 
 " Do you mean to say," asked Helene, " that he is 
 going out of England ? " The girl scarce knew what 
 she said. 
 
 " Ay, if you don't stop him ; if you don't send him 
 some kind message. Poor dear heart, he ha' been down 
 here to take leave of me, as he said ; but I knew well 
 enough 'twas to ask about you, Miss Helene. And sad, 
 indeed, he was, specially when he found how resolute 
 you 'd kept aloof, and never called at the great house, 
 and wouldn't even come when your pa went abroad." 
 
 "He has been at Avonmore," faltered out Helene, 
 " and I never knew it ! " 
 
 " He charged me, my dear, to keep it a secret. But 
 my mind 's so wretched I determined to come and tell 
 ye. Sure, Miss Helene, you have some feeling for my 
 poor master?"
 
 270 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " Feeling !" cried Helene. " I have never ceased to 
 love him ; but I thought, yes indeed, I thought he 
 cared for me no longer." 
 
 " Oh, child, what a terrible business it is ! He 's 
 a-wasted away a'niost to a skeleton, and you ha' done 
 it all." 
 
 "Don't drive me mad!" cried Helene, in accents 
 strange and hoarse. " Oh, I shall die. I wish to — " 
 
 " ]STo, child ; you 'd a-better try to live, and set about 
 a-savin' of him." 
 
 " How can I save him ? " 
 
 " I 'm a-goin to write to him to-night ; that 's why I 
 came. I said to myself over and over again, Maybe 
 she '11 let me send just a word 0' kindness." 
 
 " Just a word ! Oh, I will write to him myself if it 's 
 any use." 
 
 " Go home with me, child ; write from Avonmore. 
 The very idea that you 're there will help to heal his 
 breakin' heart." 
 
 " I'll do anything," cried the trembling girl. " But 
 are you sure he wants me to come ?" 
 
 " Wants you to come ? How has he grieved about 
 it ! How was his last hope gone, as he said, when 
 you stayed here so resolute !" 
 
 " I never knew, I never knew," murmured Helene, 
 weeping, " that he loved me still" 
 
 " Loves you, child ! Oh, he more than loves you. But 
 I fear it 's all too late. He 's but the ghost 0' what he 
 was." 
 
 " Don't tell me these things," cried the girl. " What 
 can I do ?"
 
 Our Little Gipsy. 271 
 
 " Go with me now — now. Get on your things, and 
 write to him this very day." 
 
 " You have made me tremble so I can hardly stand. 
 Oh, Oiseau, bid the creature bring my bonnet, my 
 gloves, a cloak." 
 
 " And your night-clothes," added Mrs. Bird. 
 
 Helene's tears fell fast, The vision of the great 
 chamber hung with cramoisi rose before her, but she 
 said nothing ; and Mrs. Bird left the room in search of 
 the flighty maid, and presently returned laden with a 
 carpet-bag, the maid following with the bonnet, cloak, 
 and gloves. On entering the room the latter personage 
 stared at the agitated girl in wonder. 
 
 " I am going away with Mrs. Bird," was all that 
 Helene said, as she took the bonnet and hastily put it 
 on, and had the cloak wrapped round her by Oiseau. 
 
 " I 'm sure cook and me 's very sorry, Miss, if we 've 
 vexed you so." 
 
 " I am not thinking of either of you," answered 
 Helene. " Some bad news makes me quite forget either 
 of you exist." 
 
 During Oiseau's short absence from the room she 
 had bidden the other servant order her donkey-chair 
 to the door. Already it is there. With some slight 
 difficulty the rheumatic old dame places herself in it. 
 Helene follows. They are driving towards Avonmore. 
 
 Meanwhile the housemaid, enraged at her young 
 mistress's sudden and unceremonious departure, enraged 
 at what she deems her contemptuous words and manner 
 as she leaves the cottage, enters the kitchen abusing 
 " the proud little minx."
 
 272 Our Little Gipsy. 
 
 " To think, cook, too, of a bailiff's daughter a-givin' of 
 herself these hairs. Why, I '11 be blessed if she 's a bit 
 more of a lady than we." 
 
 " Never mind," cries cook, " can't we just ha' some 
 fun ? No need to do our courtin' out-door to-night." 
 
 " I '11 just run up and make sure of a few pair of her 
 best stockens. Lord, she '11 never miss 'urn." 
 
 " Bring me a handecher or two ; them with the lace 
 on — ay, sure," with a laugh, cries cook. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 PRINTED BY T. AND A. CONSTABLE, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY, 
 AT THE EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY PRESS.
 
 
 mm