Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

In a moment she was gone. Up sprang Archie, quite regardless of the thousands of eyes upon him, and waving his cap in the air above his head, he shouted, in wild exultation:

"I knew it! I knew it! It's our Gipsy! – it's Gipsy Gower!"

CHAPTER XVII.

GIPSY'S RETURN TO SUNSET HALL

"This maiden's sparkling eyesAre pretty and all that, sir;But then her little tongueIs quite too full of chat, sir." – Moore.

The effect of Archie's announcement on our party may be imagined. Lizzie uttered a stifled shriek and fell back in her seat; the squire's eyes protruded until they seemed ready to burst from their sockets; Louis gazed like one thunderstruck, and caught hold of Archie, who seemed inclined to leap on the stage in search of his little lady-love.

"Let me go into the green-room – let us go before she leaves," cried Archie, struggling to free himself from the grasp of Louis.

The crowd were now dispersing; and the squire and his party arose and were borne along by the throng, headed by Archie, whose frantic exertions – as he dug his elbows right and left, to make a passage, quite regardless of feelings and ribs – soon brought them to the outer air; and ten minutes later – the squire never could tell how – found them in the green-room, among painted actresses and slip-shod, shabby-looking actors.

Archie's eyes danced over the assembled company, who looked rather surprised, not to say indignant, at this sudden entrance, and rested at last on a straight, slight, little figure, with its back toward them. With one bound he cleared the intervening space betwixt them, and without waiting to say "by your leave," clasped her in his arms, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek.

"Dear me, Archie, is that you? Take care! you're mussing my new dress dreadfully!" was the astoundingly cool salutation, in the well-known tones of our little Gipsy.

"Oh, Gipsy, how could you do it? Oh, Gipsy, it was such a shame," exclaimed Archie, reproachfully.

At this moment she espied Louis advancing toward her, and accosted him with:

"How d'ye do, Louis? – how's Celeste and Minnette, and Mignonne, and all the rest? Pretty well, eh?"

"Gipsy! Gipsy! what a way to talk after our long parting," said Louis, almost provoked by her indifference. "You don't know how we all grieved for you. Poor Mrs. Gower has become quite a skeleton crying for her 'monkey.'"

"Oh, poor, dear aunty! that's too bad now. But here comes Guardy and Lizzie. I don't think Guardy was breaking his heart about me anyway! He looks in capital condition yet."

At this moment the squire came over with Lizzie leaning on his arm.

"Hallo! Guardy, how are you? How did you like the opera?" exclaimed Gipsy, in the same tone she would have used had she parted from him an hour before.

"Oh, Gipsy! you little wretch you! I never thought it would come to this," groaned the squire.

"No, you thought I wasn't clever enough! Just see how easy it is to be deceived! Didn't I dance beautifully, though, and ain't I credit to you now? I'll leave it to Archie here. Aunt Lizzie, I'll speak to you as soon as I get time. Here comes old Barnes, the manager, to know what's the matter."

"Oh, Gipsy, you'll come home with us, my love, you really must," exclaimed Lizzie.

"Couldn't, aunty, by no manner of means," replied Gipsy, shaking her head.

"But I'll be shot if you don't, though," shouted the squire, "so no more about it. Do you think I'm going to let a ward of mine go with a gang of strolling players any longer?"

"I'm no ward of yours, Squire Erliston; I'm my own mistress, thanks be to goodness, free and independent, and so I mean to stay," exclaimed Gipsy, with sparkling eyes.

"But, oh, my dear! my dear Gipsy, do come home with us to-night," pleaded Lizzie, taking her hand.

"You will, Gipsy, just for to-night," coaxed Louis. And: "Ah, Gipsy, won't you now?" pleaded Archie, looking up in her saucy little face, with something very like tears shining in his usually merry blue eyes.

"Well – maybe – just for to-night," said Gipsy, slowly yielding; "but mind, I must go back to-morrow."

"And may I be kicked to death by grasshoppers, if ever I let you go back," muttered the squire to himself.

"Here comes the manager, Mr. Barnes," said Gipsy, raising her voice; "these are my friends, and I am going home with them to-night."

"You'll be back to-morrow in time for the rehearsal" inquired Mr. Barnes, in no very pleased tone of voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Poor Celeste!" exclaimed Gipsy, with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes. "Oh, don't I wish I'd only been there to take her part! Wouldn't I have given it to Minnette – the ugly old thing! – beg pardon, Archie, for calling your cousin names."

"Oh, you're welcome to call her what you please, for all I care," replied Archie, in a nonchalant tone. "I'm not dying about her."

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

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

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

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

"Good Lord! I just thought so!" ejaculated the horrified squire.

"Finally, Guardy, I came to the conclusion that I would do neither. Both were unpleasant jobs – at least they would have been unpleasant to you, whatever they might have been to me, and would have taken too much time. So I concluded to let you burden the earth a little longer, and quote Solomon for the edification of the world generally, and in the meantime to make myself as scarce as possible; for I'd no idea of staying to be knocked about like an old dishcloth. So I got up, took my last supply of pocket-money, stole down to the stables, mounted Mignonne, and dashed off like the wind. Poor Mignonne! I rather think I astonished him that night, and we were both pretty well blown by the time we reached Brande's Tavern.

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

"Gipsy," exclaimed Archie, "you're a regular specimen of Young America! You deserve a leather medal, or a service of tin plate – you do, by Jove!"

"'Pon honor, now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And I vow, Miss Flyaway, you shall go with us – there!"

"And I vow, Guardy, I sha'n't go with you – there!"

"I'll go to law, and compel you to come. I'm your rightful guardian!" said the squire, in rising wrath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, maybe there's something in that," said Gipsy, thoughtfully.

"And you know, my love," said Lizzie, "that, though a little girl may be a dancer, it's a dreadful life for a young woman – which you will be in two or three years. No one ever respects a dancing girl; no gentleman ever would marry you."

"Wouldn't they, though!" said Gipsy, so indignantly that Archie once more fell back, convulsed. "If they wouldn't, somebody 'd lose the smartest, cleverest, handsomest young lady on this terrestrial globe, though I say it, as 'hadn't oughter.' Well, since you all are going to commit suicide if I don't go with you, I suppose old Barnes must lose the 'bright particular star' of his company, and I must return to St. Mark's, to waste my sweetness on the desert air."

This resolution was greeted with enthusiastic delight by all present; and the night was far advanced before the squire could part with his "little vixen," and allow her to go to rest.

Old Barnes – as Gipsy called him – was highly indignant at the treatment he had received, and, going to the hotel, began abusing Gipsy and the squire, and everybody else generally; whereupon the squire, who never was noted for his patience, took him by the collar, and, by a well-applied kick, landed him in the kennel – a pleasant way of settling disputes which he had learned while dealing with his negroes, but for which an over-particular court made him pay pretty high damages.

Three days after, Louis and Archie bade them farewell, and entered college; and the squire, after a pleasure-trip of a few weeks, set out for St. Mark's.

In due course of time he arrived at that refugium peccatorum; and the unbounded delight with which Gipsy was hailed can never be described by pen of mine.

Good Mrs. Gower could scarcely believe that her darling was really before her; and it was only when listening to the uproar that everywhere followed the footsteps of the said darling, that she could be convinced.

As for Celeste, not knowing whether to laugh or cry with joy, she split the difference, and did both. Even Miss Hagar's grim face relaxed as Gipsy came flashing into their quiet cottage like a March whirlwind, throwing everything into such "admired disorder," that it generally took the quiet little housekeeper, Celeste, half a day to set things to rights afterward.

And now it began to be time to think of completing the education of the two young girls. Minnette had left for school before the return of Gipsy, and it became necessary to send them likewise. Loath as the squire was to part with his pet, he felt he must do it, and urged Miss Hagar to allow Celeste to accompany her.

"Gipsy will defend her from the malice of Minnette, and the two girls will be company for each other," said the old man to the spinster. "Girls must know how to chatter French, and bang on a piano, and make worsted cats and dogs, and all such! So let little Snowdrop, here, go with my monkey, and I'll foot the bill."

Miss Hagar consented; and a month after found our little rustic lasses – our fair "Star of the Valley" and our mountain fairy, moving in the new world of boarding-school.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ARCHIE

"His youthful form was middle size,For feat of strength or exerciseShaped in proportion fair;And dark-blue was his eagle eye,And auburn of the darkest dyeHis short and curling hair.Light was his footstep in the dance,And firm his stirrup in the lists,And oh! he had that merry glanceThat seldom lady's heart resists." – Scott.

Five years passed. And the children, Gipsy and Celeste, we can never see more; for those five years have changed them into young ladies of seventeen. Strange to say, neither Louis nor Archie has met Minnette, Gipsy, or Celeste, since the time they parted to go to college: and with all the change that years have made in their appearance, it is doubtful whether they would even recognize one another now, if they met.

The way of it was this: Louis and Archie, after the life and excitement of the city, began to think that Sunset Hall was an insufferably dull place; and with the usual fickleness of youth, instead of going home to spend their vacation, invariably went with some of their school-fellows. This troubled the old squire very little; for without Gipsy, in the quiet of Sunset Hall, he was falling into a state of stupid apathy, and gave Master Louis carte blanche to go where he pleased. Lizzie was too indolent to trouble herself much about it, and as she generally went on a visit to New York every winter, she contented herself with seeing her son and heir then, and knowing he was well. As for Gipsy and Celeste, their faithless boy-lovers seemed to have quite outgrown their early affection for them.

Then, when the time came for them to graduate, and make choice of a profession, Squire Erliston found that young Mr. Oranmore would neither be doctor, lawyer, nor clergyman; nor even accept a post in the army or navy.

"Why not," said the squire, during an interview he had with him; "what's your objection?"

"Why, my dear grandfather," replied Louis, "you should have too much regard for your suffering fellow-mortals to make a doctor of me. As for being a lawyer, I haven't rascality enough for that yet; and I've too much respect for the church to take holy orders. Neither does the camp nor forecastle agree with me. I have no particular love for forced marches or wholesale slaughter; nor do I care over much for stale biscuit, bilge-water, and the cat-o'-nine-tails; so I must e'en decline all."

"Then what in the name of Heaven will you be?" exclaimed the squire.

"An artist, sir; an artist. Heaven has destined me for a painter. I feel something within me that tells me I will yet win fame and renown. Let me go to Europe – to Germany and Italy, and study the works of the glorious old masters, and I will yet win a name you will not blush to hear."

"Glorious old fiddlesticks! Go, if you like, but I never expected to find a grandson of mine such a fool! The heir of Mount Sunset and its broad lands, the heir of Oranmore Hall, and old Mother Oranmore's yellow guineas, can do as he pleases, of course. Go and waste your time daubing canvas if you will, I'll be hanged if I care!"

Therefore, six months before the return of the girls from school, Louis, accompanied by a friend, sailed for Europe without seeing them.

"And you, sir," said the squire, turning to Archie; "are you going to be a fool and turn painter, too?"

"No, sir," replied Master Archie; "I'm not going to be a fool, but I'm going to be something worse – a knave; in other words, a lawyer. As for painting, thank fortune, I've no more talent for it than I have for turning milliner, beyond painting my face when acting charades."

So Archie went to Washington, and began studying for the bar.

Gipsy, who was a universal favorite in school, began, for the last few years, to copy the example of the boys, and spend her vacations with her friends. Minnette and Celeste always returned home; for Minnette, cold, and reserved, and proud, was disliked and feared by all; and though Celeste was beloved by everybody, duty and affection forbade her to leave Miss Hagar for her own pleasure.

Our madcap friend, Gipsy, had lost none of her wicked nor mischief-loving propensities during those years. Such a pest and a plague as she was in the school, driving teachers and pupils to their wits' end with her mad pranks, and yet liked so well. There was usually a downright quarrel, about the time of the holidays, to see who would possess her; and Gipsy, after looking on and enjoying the fun, would, to the surprise and chagrin of all, go with some one who least hoped for the honor.

Gipsy was spending the winter with a school-friend, Jennie Moore, at Washington. The three girls, whose united fortunes are the subject of this history, had graduated; Minnette, with the highest honors the school could give; Celeste, with fewer laurels, but with far more love; and Gipsy – alas, that I should have to say it! – most wofully behind all. The restless elf would not study – was always at the foot of her class, and only laughed at the grave lectures of the teachers; and yawned horribly over the rules of syntax, and the trying names in her botany. So poor Gipsy left little better than when she entered.

The folding-doors of Mr. Moore's spacious drawing-room were thrown open, blazing with light and radiant with brilliantly-dressed ladies. Miss Jennie had resolved that the first ball should surpass anything that had taken place that winter. All the elite of the city, wealth, beauty, fashion, gallantry, and talent, were mingled in gay confusion. There were soft rustling of silks, and waving of perfumed handkerchiefs, and flirting of fans, and flirting of belles; and bright ladies cast killing glances from their brilliant eyes; and gentlemen bowed and smiled, and paid compliments, and talked all sorts of nonsense, and

"All went merry as a marriage bell."

Near the upper end of the room the belle, par excellence, seemed to be; for in her train flowed all that were wittiest, and gayest, and loveliest there. Whenever she moved, a throng of admirers followed; and where the laughter was loudest, the mirth highest, the crowd greatest, there might you find the center of attraction, this belle of whom I am speaking.

And yet she was not beautiful; at least, not beautiful when compared with many there who were neglected for her. She is floating now in a gay waltz round the room with a distinguished foreigner, and "I will paint her as I see her."

A small, slight, straight, lithe figure, airy and bird-like in its motions, skimming over the floor without seeming to touch it; never at rest; but quick, sudden, abrupt, and startling in all its motions, yet every motion instinct, glowing with life. A dark, bright, laughing little face, that no one knows whether it is handsome or not, it is so radiant, so bewitching, so sparkling, so full of overflowing mirth and mischief. Short, crisp black curls, adorning the sauciest little head in the world; wicked brown eyes, fairly twinkling with wickedness; a rosy little mouth, that seemed always laughing to display the little pearly teeth. Such was the star of the evening. Reader, do you recognize her?