Читать книгу Zoe; Or, Some Day - May Leonard - Страница 14

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"Lady, cross the Gipsy's hand with gold,

She will to you the future unfold."

—Mae.

"What a beautiful spot! how lovely if we could go on shore and investigate."

"Yes, Miss Litchfield, that is an excellent idea of yours. I will order the boats out, and if the company are willing we will row over and land."

The Hon. Jerry goes rapidly away to give the order. Dolores is sitting in a camp chair on the deck of the Hon. Jerry's yacht, a scarlet shawl thrown lightly over her pretty shoulders. The yacht has glided into one of the most charming inlets of beautiful scenery Dolores' eyes have seen since her return from abroad.

"Are we to really go on shore?" demands Rea Severn, lifting for a moment her eyes from the crazy cushion she is engaged in making. She has been industriously at work, with her eyes fixed most devoutly on the silks and crewels, but her ears have heard every word Dolores and the Hon. Jerry have spoken for the last twenty minutes.

"I believe so," Dolores answers absently. She is busy gazing dreamily across the deep, blue, shining, sparkling, rippling waters.

"Come, ladies, let us be up and doing; the boats are ready."

Gordon Aubrey flings overboard the cigar he has been smoking, and a general move is made. Rea Severn hastily tosses aside her work, and puts on the hat her maid has brought. Rea, Dolores, Mrs. St. James, Gordon Aubrey, the Hon. Jerry, Ned Crane, and Florrie Silverstone depart. The other members of the party are either too lazy, or have something to do more pleasing to their minds than going to explore a place which would in all probability be "abounding in snakes, bugs, and other venomous reptiles," as old Lady Streathmere observed when she was told of the intended expedition. Lord Streathmere would have gone too, and been only too happy, especially as Dolores went, for poor Lord Streathmere was very severely smitten with pretty, gentle Dolores; but unfortunately for him he had gone on the tug boat to view a wrecked steamer some five or six miles away.

Ned Crane whispered, as he took his accustomed place by Dolores' side, "that he was just as glad Streathmere could not come, as there was no room for him in the boat." Mrs. St. James smiles languidly, endeavoring now and then to stem the current of squabbling going on between Florrie Silverstone and Gordon Aubrey. They never agree; so at last Arial gives the attempt up in despair, and turns her attention to Ned and Dolores. When at length the boat grates on the beach, three little children, with bare feet, are building castles in the sand. They are well dressed children, probably boarding here for the summer months. They gaze in wide eyed wonder at the boat and her occupants; evidently they are not accustomed to have their sandy domains intruded upon by strangers. The eldest, a girl of eight or nine, accosted Gordon Aubrey.

"Have you come to have your fortune told?" she asked sharply.

"Will you do me the honor to tell me mine?" he answered with all due respect to the oracle. She looked him over critically, from the toe of his trim shoe to the top of his jaunty sailor hat.

"People like you, with only one eye, and the other one glass, can't have much to be told, I know," the tiny maid replies, looking at him from under her big shady hat.

"Who tells fortunes on this fairy island? won't you tell me, little one?" Mrs. St. James touches the child's dark curly head caressingly.

"Molly will; but you have to give her gold, or she won't." This information was supplied by one of the other children.

"What a joke if we could find some one who could tell us," Rea Severn cries.

Jerry Hopkins shows the girl a bright silver dollar, and says if she will show them where "Molly" is to be found she may consider herself the happy possessor of the aforesaid dollar.

"Certainly, I will take you to Molly's tent, but mamma never allows us to take money from strangers," the tiny maiden replies, as she sat down in the sand to put on her stockings and slippers. Then she led the way to the Gipsy's camp. Jerry Hopkins put the rejected offering in his pocket, thinking that some children are wiser than people twice their age.

"Here's her tent, and there's Molly. See Molly," she cries, "I brought you some people that want you to tell them their fortune. Will you tell them, Molly? Will you?"

"Ah, little Miss, you never forget old Molly, do you, dearie? Tell them to come in." Dolores feels a shiver go over her; a nasty, creepy, crawley sensation always seizes her at the mention of either Gipsy or Indian. Auntie always had such a horror of all such travelling companies. It may have been hearing her talk of them with so much repulsion that made Dolores, who is generally so fearless, feel nervous now.

"You are not frightened?" Ned Crane has watched Dolores' pretty pink colour die slowly out of her face and lips.

"Let the others go in; we will stand out here by the door to take in all that is going on inside."

When she finds she is not expected to go inside the miserable hut, Dolores brightens up, and the pink comes back to her cheeks. So they station themselves in the doorway. Contrary to most people of their or her profession, the Gipsy allows them all to remain; so, as each is being warned of that which is in store for them, good, bad or indifferent, every one hears what every one else is told.

"She seems pretty well up in the arts," Ned whispers; Dolores nods; she is listening intently. Mrs. St. James has shuffled and cut the cards, she has also wished in obedience to the rule.

"Your path has once been more rugged than that which you now tread, my lady. There is a dark spot in your past, on which you pray, the light of knowledge may never shine. There is one here present, who can betray you if she chooses."

Mrs. St. James glances toward the door; the gipsy's eyes also take the same direction. Dolores stands there, placidly, calmly; she meets the eyes turned on her with cool indifference; her pocket-handkerchief drops to the ground; she stoops to pick it up, and the gipsy goes on:

"There is a dark gentleman here whom you will have some trouble with. There is a disappointment for you; but you will get your wish even if it does turn out differently from what you think. You will get some money, and there is a pleasant conversation with a light man. He has a good heart for you; will tell you some pleasant news. You will receive a letter within a day or two. Your life will be full of ups and downs, the same as most of us."

"Now, pretty lady, will you cross the gipsy's palm?" She has turned to Rea Severn. "You are anxious about the doings of a fair man; but my pretty one, put no faith in him; the men are fickle, the best of them. You will be a little sick, not much, but brought on by your own foolishness. Let me advise you to drop the habit you have contracted. If you do not kill it, it will kill you; so be guided."

Rea shivers; she begins to feel a little frightened; she is glad the others are behind her; it would not answer for them to see the expression of fear on her face. Then each of the others had their turn. Dolores refused to have anything to do with cards; she despised the very sight of them. She told Ned they sent a cold chill over her, and Ned believed it.

"How silly! What ails you, Dolores? You are generally one of the last to back down when any fun is going on," Florrie Silverstone says petulantly. There have been some facts told Florrie, by the gipsy, which have made her a little cross. But Dolores is busy, and does not answer. She has taken some tall golden-eyed daisies from the hedge row.

"It is a much pleasanter way to tell one's own fortune, you know," she tells Ned, the ever attentive; and of course Ned agrees—he always does to what pretty Dolores says.

"He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, how nice," Dolores laughs softly, as she flings the petalless flower in the water.