The Gypsy Queen's Vow

CHAPTER XVIII.

PET’S PERIL

Miss Petronilla Lawless having, as Ranty would have expressed it, got the steam up to a high pressure, thundered over the heath, entered the forest road, and looked with eyes sparkling with defiance at the dark, gloomy pine woods on either hand. The bright morning sunshine, falling in a radiant shower through the waving boughs of the pines, gilded the crimson glow on her thin cheeks and lips, and brought fiery circlets of flame through all her short, crisp, jetty curls. Darkly beautiful looked the little wilful elf, as she slackened her pace through the narrow, sylvan forest path, as if to give any hidden enemy, if such lurked there, a full opportunity of making his appearance. None came, however; and twenty minutes brought her in sight of the gloomy gorge in the cleft mountain, so appropriately named Dismal Hollow.

Pet slackened the mad pace at which she had started still more, and loosening her bridle-reins, allowed her sure-footed pony, Starlight, to choose his own way down the narrow, unsafe bridle-path.

As she approached the house, she ran her eye, with a critical look, over it, and muttering, “Miss Priscilla’s been making improvements,” prepared to alight.

A great change for the better, too, had taken place in the appearance of Dismal Hollow, since the advent of Miss Priscilla. The great pools of green slimy water were no longer to be seen before the door; the receptacles for mud and filth had vanished, as if by magic. A clean, dry platform spread out where these had once been; the windows were no longer stuffed full of rags and old hats, but with glass panes, that fairly glittered with cleanliness; broken fences were put up, outhouses were repaired, and the whole house had evidently undergone a severe course of regeneration. Inside, the improvements were still more remarkable. Every room had undergone a vigorous course of scrubbing, washing, papering, and plastering, and the doors and windows had been closed, and hermetically sealed, and no sacrilegious foot was ever permitted to enter and “muss up,” as Miss Priscilla expressed it, those cherished apartments wherein her soul delighted. The only rooms in the old house which she permitted to be profaned by use were a couple of sleeping apartments, a little sitting-room, and the kitchen. The servants, for so long a time accustomed to do as they liked, and lazy about as they pleased, were struck with dismay at Miss Priscilla’s appalling vigor and neatness. That worthy lady declared it was not only a shame, but a sin, to be eaten out of house and home by a parcel of “shiftless niggers;” and one of her very first acts was to hire half of them out to any one who would employ them. The remainder were then informed, in very short terms, that if they did not mind their P’s and Q’s, they’d be “sold to Georgy” – a threat sufficient to terrify them into neatness and order sufficient even to satisfy “Miss ’Silly,” as they called her.

On this particular morning, Miss Priscilla sat up in her sitting-room – a little, stiff, square, prim, upright and downright sort of an apartment, with no foolery in the shape of little feminine nicknacks or ornaments about it, but everything as distressingly clean as it was possible to be. Miss Priscilla herself, radiant in a scanty, fady calico gown, reaching to her ankles, a skimpy black silk apron, and a stiff, solemn, grim-looking mob-cap, was ensconced in a rocking-chair, that kept up an awful “screechy-scrawchy,” as she rocked backward and forward, knitting away as if her life depended on it. Very hard, and grim, and sour looked Miss Priscilla, as she sat there with her sharp, cankerous lips so tightly shut that they reminded one of a vise, and her long, bony nose running out everlastingly into the thin regions of space.

The sharp clatter of horse’s hoofs arrested her attention, and she turned and looked sharply out of the window. The sour scowl deepened on her vinegar phiz, as she perceived Pet in the act of alighting.

“That sharp little wiper of a Lawless girl,” muttered Miss Priscilla, “coming here, with a happetite that’s hawful to contemplate, when she’s not wanted; turning heverything topsy-turvy, not to speak of that there pigeon-pie what’s for dinner being honly henough for one. Wah! wah!”

And with a look that seemed the very essence of distilled vengeance, and everything else sour, sharp and cankerous, Miss Priscilla went to the head of the stairs and called:

“Kupy! Kupy!” (her abbreviation of Cupid), “go and hopen the door for that Lawless girl, which is come, and bring her pony hinto the barn, and show her hup ’ere; hand don’t mind a-givin’ hof her hany hoats. Be quick there!”

As Miss Priscilla, who looked with contempt upon bells as a useless superfluity, had a remarkably shrill, ear-splitting voice of her own, the order to be quick seemed quite unnecessary; for Cupid, clapping his hand over his bruised and wounded ear-drums, hastened to the door as rapidly as possible, in order to get rid of the noise. Then Miss Priscilla walked back to her chair, and deposited her bony form therein – determining, with a sort of sour grimness, to make the best of a bad bargain. Not that Miss Priscilla thought anything of the courtesies of hospitality. She was above such weakness. But Pet Lawless was the daughter of one of the richest and most influential men in the State – would be a great heiress and fine lady some day; and Miss Priscilla, being only flesh and blood, like the rest of us, could not help feeling a deep veneration for wealth. Personally, she disliked our mad little whirligig more than anybody else she knew. But money, like charity, covereth a multitude of sins; and as Miss Pet would inherit half a million some day, Miss Priscilla Toosypegs, looking into the womb of futurity, was disposed to forgive her now the awful crime of “mussing up” her immaculate rooms, in the hope of a substantial return when the little madcap entered upon her fortune.

Pet, having by this time alighted, ran up the steps, and, with the end of her riding-whip, knocked so vociferously that she awoke every slumbering echo in the quiet old house.

Cupid, half-deafened between the piercing voice of Miss Priscilla within, and the vigorous clamor without, threw open the door; and Pet, with her riding-habit gathered up in one hand, and flourishing her whip in the other, stood there, bright, and sparkling, and fresh as a mountain-daisy before him.

“Well, Cupe how are you these times? Eh? Miss Priscilla at home?”

“Yes, Miss Pet. Miss Silly tole me to tell you you was to walk right up,” said Cupid.

“Very well. Take Starlight, and give him a good rubbing, and then plenty of oats and water. He’s had a hard gallop of it this morning – poor fellow!” said Pet, as she passed Cupid, and ran up-stairs. “Now to face the old dragon!” she muttered, as, puckering up her rosy mouth in a fruitless attempt to whistle, she swaggered into the presence of the dread spinster, with her usual springing, jaunty air.

“She hates me, and she hates kisses,” said Pet, mentally; “so I’ll kiss her, if I die in the attempt! But, ugh! vengeance! verdigris! vitriol, and vinegar! I’d as lief swallow a dose of sourkrout, and have done with it. It’s going to be awful, I know; but I’ll do it!”

“Morning, Miss Pet,” said Miss Priscilla, looking grimly up.

“Oh, Miss Priscilla, how do you do! Oh, Miss Priscilla! I’m so glad to see you again!”

And before Miss Priscilla dreamed of her diabolical intention, the elf had sprung forward, clutched her by the throat, and clung to her like a clawfish, while half a dozen short, sharp kisses went off like so many pop guns on the withered cheek of the luckless old maid.

With no gentle hand, Miss Priscilla caught the monkey by the shoulder, and hurled her from her with a violence that sent her spinning like a top across the room.

“It’s all very well for people to be glad to see people, which is honly ’uman nature,” began Miss Priscilla, in a high, shrill falsetto, while she adjusted her dislocated mob-cap; “but that hain’t no reason why people must ’ave the clothes tore hoff their back by people, just because they’re glad to see them – which is something I never was used to, Miss Pet; and though hit may be the fashion hin this ’ere country, hit’s something I don’t happrove of hat all, Miss Pet. Now, you’ll hexcuse me for saying I would rather you wouldn’t do so no more – which is disagreeable to the feelings, not to speak of mussing up people’s caps, as is some bother to hiron; though you mayn’t think so, Miss Pet.”

And having delivered herself of this brilliant and highly-grammatical oration, and thereby relieved her mind, Miss Priscilla picked up a stitch in her knitting, which, in the excitement of the moment, she had dropped.

“Why, Miss Priscilla, I’m sorry; I’m sure I didn’t mean to make you mad,” said Pet, in a penitent tone. “But I was so glad to see you, you know, I couldn’t help it. Where’s Orlando?”

“Hat them there Barrens, which is the desolatest place I hever seen,” said Miss Priscilla; “hall weeds; and there you’ll find him, with nothing growing but nasty grass, hall halong hof that there hold gipsy woman and little gal, ’stead hof staying at ’ome, hand ’tending to his ’fairs, as a respectable member hof s’ciety hought for to do; heaving away his money, with me slavin’ hand toilin’ from week’s hend to week’s hend, smoking hof nasty cigars, as spiles the teeth hand hundermines the hintellecks; which was something his blessed father (now a hangel hup there in the graveyard) never did; and shows ’ow youth is a degeneratin’. Wah! wah!” said Miss Priscilla, concluding with her usual grimace of sour disgust.

“Just so, Miss Priscilla, I’ve often had to talk to our Ranty about it, too,” said Pet, gravely; “but these boys are all a nasty set, you know, and don’t mind us girls at all. I’ve come to stay all day, Miss Priscilla.” And Pet took off her hat and gloves as she spoke. “I thought you might be lonesome, and knew you’d be glad to have me here; and I don’t really know of any place I like to be so well as I do to be here!”

All the time Pet had been uttering this awful fib, she was taking off her things, and pitching them about in a way that made Miss Priscilla gasp with horror. Her hat was thrown into one corner, her gloves into another, her whip into a third, and her pocket-handkerchief, collar and brooch anywhere they chose to fall.

“You needn’t go putting yourself out about dinner, Miss Priscilla,” said Pet, who well knew the spinster’s parsimoniousness in this respect, and thought she would just give her a hint. “Anything will do for me – a broiled chicken, with a mince pie and some grapes; or some nice mutton chops, fried in butter, with a rice-pudding, or a custard – anything, you know. But don’t put yourself out!”

“I don’t hintend to,” said Miss Priscilla, knitting away, grimly. “I never do put myself hout for hanybody; wouldn’t for the President hof the United States or the King hof Hingland – no, not hif he was to come hall the way from Lunnon hon his two blessed bare knees to hask hit hof me has a favor. Hand hif you’d pick up them there clothes of your’n, Miss Pet, which his hall pitched habout, hand gives the room a’ huntidy look, and put them hon the table, hand call to Haunt Bob to carry them hup-stairs, I’d feel heasier hin my mind.”

“Oh, let them lay!” said Pet, indifferently. “They’re old things; and I ain’t particular about them. I guess the floor won’t dirty them much!”

“My floor’s clean, Miss Pet, I’d have you for to know, hand wouldn’t dirty hanybody’s things!” answered Miss Priscilla, sharply, and with flashing eyes; “but them there things hof your’n musses hit hup, which his something I never likes my room to be, being neat myself, a-slavin’, and toilin’, and strivin’ to keep things to rights from morning till night, with people a-pitchin’ hof things round huntil hit looks like a ’og-stye. Wah! wah!”

And Miss Priscilla got up and picked up all Pet’s garments, and carried them up to her own bedroom, out of the way.

And then Pet, with her diabolical spirit of mischief uppermost, went flying through the house, opening, shutting, slamming and banging the doors, in a way that drove the peace-loving spinster to the verge of madness, and made her sour temper ten degrees sourer, until her very look would have turned treacle to vinegar. In and out, up and down stairs, getting astride of the bannisters and sliding down, at the imminent danger of breaking her neck, ransacking every room, and turning everything topsy-turvy and upside down, and “mussing things” generally, until Miss Priscilla Toosypegs “vowed a vow” in her secret heart that the next time she saw Miss Petronilla Lawless coming, she would lock every door in the house, and send Cupid out with his “blunderingbuss” to shoot her, rather than let her ever darken her doors again.

Dinner at length was announced, and Miss Priscilla began to breathe freely again, in the hope of at least a few moments, respite from her tormentor. As Pet entered the sitting-room – for Miss Toosypegs dined in her sitting-room – her thin, dark, bright face all aglow with fun and frolic; her black eyes dancing and sparkling with insufferable light; her short, crisp, black curls all tangled and damp over her shoulders and round, polished, saucy, boyish forehead, she looked the very embodiment, the very incarnate spirit of mischief and mirth. She looked like a little grenade, all jets and sparkles – a little barrel of gunpowder, at any moment ready to explode – a wild, untamed little animal, very beautiful, but very dangerous.

And there, at the head of the table, the greatest contrast to her dark, bright, fiery little neighbor that could well be found, sat Miss Toosypegs, as prim, stiff and upright as if she had swallowed a ramrod – as sour, sharp and acid as if she had been spoon-fed on verjuice from infancy upward.

Pet’s eyes went dancing over the table to examine the bill of fare. Now, reader, our Pet was not a gourmand, nor yet an epicure, by any means – what she got to eat was very little trouble to her, indeed; but she knew Miss Priscilla was intensely miserly, and, having plenty, begrudged every mouthful eaten at her board. Therefore, the wicked little elf determined to give her a slight idea of what she could do in the eating-line when provoked to it.

But alas! little was there on that table to provoke the appetite. Two cups of pale, sickly-looking tea, a plate with four small, dropsical-looking potatoes, a consumptive red-herring, and, by way of dessert, a pigeon-pie. That was all.

Pet’s face fell to a formidable length for an instant; the next, a bright idea struck her, and she inwardly exclaimed, as she saw Miss Priscilla’s eyes rest lovingly on the pigeon-pie:

“Pet, child, you’ll be starved, you know, if you don’t look out, before you get home. It’s your duty to show Miss Priscilla what she owes to her guests; so you walk right into that pigeon-pie, and eat every morsel of it, though you should burst!”

“Sit down, Miss Pet,” said Miss Priscilla, solemnly, pointing to her chair, and holding her knife and fork threateningly over the ghostly-looking red-herring, “for what we are about to receive. Which do you like best, the ’ead or the tail, Miss Pet? – take your choice.”

“Thank you, Miss Priscilla; for I don’t care for either – I ain’t fond of fish. I guess I’ll take this.”

And Pet coolly leaned over, took the pie, and commenced vigorously cutting it up.

“I always make myself at home here, Miss Priscilla,” said Pet, speaking with her mouth full. “I know you ain’t fond of dainties; and nobody has such nice pigeon-pies as you have. You made it on purpose for me – didn’t you? I told you not to put yourself to any trouble on my account; but you would, you know. It’s real nice, Miss Priscilla; and I’d ask you to have some, only I know you don’t care about it.”

And all this time Pet had been crunching away, half choking herself in her haste.

And Miss Priscilla! What pen shall describe her feelings when she saw that cherished pigeon-pie – the making of which she had been deliberating about for a week before – that pigeon-pie, which had been uppermost in her mind all morning, vanishing before her eyes with such frightful rapidity? The English language is weak, is utterly powerless to describe how she felt. There she sat, as if turned to stone, her knife and fork still poised over the herring, speechless with horror and amazement, her eyes frozen to the face of Pet, while still her cherished pigeon-pie kept disappearing like mist before the morning sun.

“Do take your dinner, Miss Priscilla. Why, you ain’t eating anything, hardly,” said the wicked little wretch, as her fork went up and down from her plate to her mouth with the nearest approach to perpetual motion the horrified spinster had ever seen. “Just see how I’m getting along. This pie is really beautiful, Miss Priscilla. Oh, I love pigeon-pie; and only I know you’d rather see me eat it, I’d make you have a piece. There! I’ve finished!” said Pet, pushing aside the empty plate, and leaning back in her chair in a state almost “too full for utterance.” “Oh, that pigeon-pie was – was – actually divine! It just was, Miss Priscilla; and I’d come to see you every day if you’d only make me one like that.”

Without a word, but with a look that might have turned scarlet any face less hard than that of the wicked little elf, Miss Priscilla began her dinner. Nothing daunted, Pet sat and talked away unceasingly; but never a word came from the penknife-lips of Miss Priscilla Toosypegs. Then, when the slender repast was over, Aunt Bob was called up from the lower regions to clear away the service; and Pet sat in her chair, feeling it inconvenient to do anything but talk, just then; and talk she did, with a right good will, for two mortal hours; and still Miss Priscilla sat knitting and knitting away, and speaking never a word.

“The cross, cantankerous, sharp-nosed old thing!” muttered Pet, at last, getting tired of this unprofitable occupation. “The stingy old miser! to sit there sulking because I ate the only thing fit to eat on the table. I declare! if I haven’t a good mind to come every day and do the same, just for her ugliness! Oh, yaw-w-w! how sleepy I am! I guess I’ve done all the mischief I can do, just now, so I’ll go to sleep. I’d go home, only I said I wouldn’t go till dark, and I won’t, either! So, now, Pet, child, you drop into the ‘arms of Murphy,’ as Ranty says, as fast as you like.”

And curling herself up in her chair, with her head pillowed on her arm, Pet, in five minutes, was sound asleep.

From her slumbers she was awoke by a vigorous shake, given by no gentle hand. Pet started up, rubbed her eyes, and beheld Miss Priscilla, by the light of a lamp she carried, bending over her.

“I’m a-going to bed, Miss Lawless,” said Miss Priscilla, grimly; “hand hunless you intends staying all night – which I shouldn’t be hany surprised at hif you was – hit’s time you was a-going ’ome.”

“Why, how late is it?” exclaimed Pet, jumping to her feet.

“Height o’clock, hand as dark as a wolf’s mouth, hat that.”

“My stars! And isn’t tea ready yet, Miss Priscilla?”

“I’ve ’ad my tea a’ hour ago,” said Miss Priscilla, with a grim sort of smile. “You was so sound hasleep I didn’t care about wakening hof you, not to speak hof aveing heat so much for your dinner, I didn’t think you’d care for hany tea. ’Ere’s your things, Miss Pet, and your ’oss is at the door; but you can stay hall night, hif you like.”