Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

"You always thought her simple and guileless; I always knew her to be artful and ambitious. She has not been entrapped. I have heard that she laughs as merrily as ever, and talks more nonsense than she ever did before in her life – in short, appears perfectly happy. She is too bold and daring to be entrapped. Besides, what means could they use to compel her? If she found them trying to tyrannize over her, she would run off as she did before. Nonsense, Archie! Your own sense must tell you she has married him willingly."

Every word was like a dagger to his heart. He dropped into a chair, buried his face in his hands, and groaned.

"Oh, Gipsy! Gipsy! – lost to me forever. What are wealth and honor to me now! For you I toiled to win a home and name, believing you true. And thus I am repaid for all. Oh, is there nothing but treachery and deceit in this world? Would to heaven," he added, springing fiercely up, and shaking back his fair, brown hair, "that the man she has wedded were not an old dotard like that. I would blow his brains out ere another hour."

"My father will, no doubt, rejoice to find his years have saved his life," said Minnette, in her customary cold tone. "Pray, Mr. Rivers, be more calm; there is no necessity for all this excitement. If Aurora Gower has deserted you for one whom she supposed wealthier, it is only the old story over again."

"The old story!" exclaimed Archie, bitterly. "Yes, the old story of woman's heartlessness and treachery, and man's blind self-deception. Be calm! Yes; if you had told me she whom I love above all on earth was dead, and in her grave, I might be calm; but the wife of another, and that other" – he paused, and ground his teeth with impotent rage.

"Well, since it is so, and cannot be helped, what's the use of making such a time about it?" said Minnette, impatiently, taking up her book and beginning to read.

Archie glanced at the cold, stone-like girl before him, whose very calmness seemed to madden him; then, seizing his hat, he rushed from the room, exclaiming:

"Yes, I will see her – I will confront her once more, accuse her of her deceit and selfishness, and then leave the country forever."

He was out of the house in an instant; and in five minutes was galloping madly through the driving wind and rain, unheeded and unfelt, now toward Mount Sunset Hall.

The numberless blazing lights from the many windows illumined his path before it; the sound of revelry was wafted to his ears by the wind, making him gnash his teeth in very rage.

He reached the mansion, threw the reins to one of the many servants standing in the court-yard; and all wet and travel-stained, pale, wild, and excited as he was, he made his way through the wondering crowd, that involuntarily made way for him to pass; and

"So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all.But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented – the gallant came late."

Heeding not the many curious eyes bent upon him, still he strode on, until he stood within the crowded drawing-room.

Amid all that throng his eye saw but one face, beheld but one form. Standing near the upper end of the room was Gipsy —his Gipsy once – looking far more beautiful than he had ever seen her before, and flirting with all her might with a dashing lieutenant.

Having gained her point, to be married in black, she had exchanged her dismal robes for the gorgeous wedding-dress that fell around her in folds of light. Pearls flashed amid her raven curls, gleamed in her ears, shone on her white arms, and rose and fell on her restless bosom. She needed no rouge, for her cheeks were vivid crimson, her lips red and glowing, her eyes outshining the jewels she wore. Never had Gipsy been so lovely, so bewildering, so intoxicating before.

The very sight seemed to madden Archie. To see her there in all her dazzling beauty, the wife of another, laughing and talking as gayly as though he had never existed, nearly drove him to desperation. Striding through the crowd of gay revelers, who drew back in alarm from his wild, pale face and fierce eyes, he advanced through the room, and stood before the bride.

There was an instantaneous hush through the room. Dr. Wiseman, already sullen and jealous, sprang up from the distant corner to which he had retreated, but did not venture to approach.

Gipsy's graceful head was bent in well-affected timidity as she listened to the gallant words and whispered compliments of the gay young officer, when, suddenly looking up, she beheld a sight that froze the smile on her lip, the light in her eye, the blood in her veins, the very life in her heart. Every trace of color faded from her face, leaving her white as the dead; her lips parted, but no sound came forth.

"So, Mrs. Wiseman, I see you recognize me!" he said, with bitter sarcasm. "Allow me to congratulate you upon this joyful occasion. Do not let the recollection that you have perjured yourself to-day before God's minister, mar your festivity to-night. No doubt the wealth for which you have cast a true heart aside, and wedded a man you loathe, will make you completely happy. As I leave America forever to-morrow, I wished to offer my congratulations to the 'happy pair' before I went. I was fool enough, at one time, to believe the promises you made me; but I did not then know 'how fair an outside falsehood hath.' Farewell, Mrs. Wiseman! you and I will never meet again. All your treachery, all your deceit, your heartlessness, is known to me, and I will never trouble you more!"

He turned, left the house, sprang on his horse, and was out of St. Mark's ere any one had recovered from their astonishment and stupefaction sufficiently to speak.

He heard not, as he rode along, the wild, piercing cry of anguish that broke from the lips of the bride, as she fell senseless to the ground. He knew not, as he stood on the deck of the steamer, next morning, bound for "merrie England," that the once free, wild, mountain huntress, the once daring, defying Gipsy, lay raving and shrieking in the wild delirium of brain fever, calling always in vain for him she had lost. They had caught the young eaglet, and caged it at last; but the free bird of the mountains lay wounded and dying in their grasp.

CHAPTER XXVI.

LOUIS

"A look of pride, an eye of flame;A full-drawn lip that upward curled;An eye that seemed to scorn the world." – Scott.

It was a merry morn in June, many months after the events related in the last chapter. A brief retrospective glance it is necessary to take ere we proceed.

For many long weeks after the fatal night of her marriage, Gipsy lay hovering between life and death; and Celeste came, with her loving heart, and gentle voice, and noiseless footstep, and, unheeding rest or sleep, nursed the poor, pale, crazed little bride back to life. No one else would Gipsy have near her – not even Aunty Gower; and a physician from the city attended her – for the very mention of her detested bridegroom threw her into hysterics. But, notwithstanding all their care, long months passed away ere Gipsy was well again, and Celeste, worn and wearied, but uncomplaining, permitted to return to the peaceful solitude of Valley Cottage.

Dr. Wiseman had not yet breathed a syllable of Gipsy's parentage. He could not do so during her illness; and when she recovered, he wished a decent interval of time to elapse ere he made it known, lest the world should suspect his previous knowledge of it had caused him to marry her. Besides, he found there was no cause to hurry; for, during Gipsy's illness, the squire had invited him to shut up his house at Deep Dale, and bring Minnette with him, to reside at Sunset Hall. To this the doctor eagerly assented; and having, with some trouble, prevailed upon Minnette to accompany him, Deep Dale was rented, and the doctor and his daughter became domesticated at Mount Sunset Hall.

Nearly nine months had elapsed. Gipsy – now as well as ever, and more daring and mischievous even than before – had just set herself to work to begin fulfilling the vow she had made, and soon succeeded in driving the doctor nearly wild. Though he had merely married her for her money, he had, as time passed on, learned to love her with a strange, selfish, absorbing passion; and the more she mocked, and scorned, and laughed at him, the more infatuated he grew. The wilful elf kept her husband in a constant state of panic and terror, running into the greatest dangers with the utmost recklessness, and often barely escaping with her life. Out all hours of the day and night, sometimes not coming home until morning, it is not to be wondered at that she kept the whole household in alarm. Often after midnight, going out to search for her, they would find her riding among the rocks, or, having tied up Mignonne, she would be discovered asleep in some grotto or cavern. Then her flirting! The doctor was madly jealous, and not without reason. There was not a man under thirty, if at all presentable, but the reckless girl had flirted unmercifully with, in a way that would have completely destroyed the reputation of any other woman, but which was merely noticed by the remark that it was "just like Gipsy;" and her maddest actions were listened to with a smile and a stare of astonishment, and a "wonder what she'll do next?" Poor, half-crazed little Gipsy! The real goodness of her nature was too apparent to all through her outward recklessness to make them suspect her of evil.

St. Mark's had become a much gayer place than when we first knew it. Many new families had moved hither from the city; and balls, and parties, and sleigh-rides in winter, and picnics, and excursions, and soirees, in summer, became all the rage; and the leader of all these was the "merry little Mrs. Wiseman," as these new-comers called her. And no one, to see her entering heart and soul into these festivities, would ever dream of the miserable secret weighing on her mind, or the still untamed, restless heart that struggled to find forgetfulness in constant gayety.

They had never heard of Archie since his departure, save once through Louis, who, in one of his letters, spoke of having met him in Paris. No one mentioned his name at Sunset Hall. Gipsy especially, even in the remotest way, never alluded to him; and the good, obtuse family began to hope she had quite forgotten him.

And now we have come back to that merry morn in June with which this chapter opened. Gipsy, arrayed in a tasteful riding-habit, which she held up with one hand, while in the other she held a silver-mounted riding-whip, stood in the breezy park, watching her horse, that was neighing impatiently to be off. Mrs. Gower stood behind her, looking troubled and anxious.

"My dear Gipsy," she was saying, "I wish you would not go out this morning. What will people say to see you out riding, and your husband having fallen from his horse, and broken two of his ribs and his leg, last night?"

"I wish it had been his neck!"

"Oh, child! don't say such sinful, wicked things. Of course, I know you don't mean them; but then it's very wrong."

"I don't care, aunty; I do wish it – there! I don't see what possesses him to cumber the earth so long. If he doesn't give up the ghost soon, I'll administer a dose of hemp some night – for I do believe his destiny is hanging. If there ever was a neck made for a rope, it's his – just the shape for it. Jupe, mind what you're at there. Don't let Mignonne get all over dust."

"Gipsy, you will stay?"

"I won't stay, aunty – not if it were Dr. Wiseman's neck, instead of his ribs, that was broken. Oh, yes, I would, too; I'd stay home then for joy. I'm off now. Good-bye. If his worship becomes extinct during my absence, just send for me, and I'll shed a few tears, and everything will go off in fashionable style."

And, laughing at Mrs. Gower's scandalized face, Gipsy leaped on her horse and rode off.

As she ascended the hills behind Mount Sunset she beheld, opposite to her, a horseman with his back toward her, standing silent and motionless, gazing upon Sunset Hall.

"I wonder who he is?" thought Gipsy. "A handsome fellow, I should say, for his form is superb. Wonder if he knows he's standing on my favorite point of view? Well, as I've no notion of surrendering my rights to him or any one else, I'll just give him a hint to get out of that." And, suiting the action to the words, Gipsy shouted, as she reined up her horse: "Hallo, sir!"

The horseman was still gazing like one entranced. He evidently did not hear her.

"I say, sir!" again called Gipsy.

Still no answer.

"Well, whoever you are," soliloquized Gipsy, "you're mighty polite to refuse answering a lady. I'll try again. Look here, sirrah, will you?"

He did not move.

"Well, 'pon my honor, that's decidedly cool!" said Gipsy. "So you won't pretend to notice me, eh? Very well, sir; we'll see whether you'll pay more attention to a lady than this."

And Gipsy drew a pistol from her belt, took deliberate aim, and fired.

It was well she doubted not her own skill; it was well she had a steady hand and eye; for the bullet passed through the crown of his hat, scarcely two inches above the temple.

With an exclamation of surprise and anger, the stranger turned round, and likewise drew a pistol. His eye wandered over the scene; but he could see no one but a young girl, who was coolly reloading her pistol, as if about to send a second ball in the same direction.

"Good-morning, madam. Did you see any one fire just now," said the stranger, in a most musical voice, as he rode toward her.

"Yes, sir, I fired it," replied Gipsy, impudently.

"You did!" said the stranger, with a stare of surprise; "and may I ask, madam, if it was your intention to shoot me?"

"Of course it was! My aim was unfortunately taken a little too high. If you'll just stand there again, I'll try another shot," replied Gipsy gravely.

Again the stranger stared, as though doubting the sanity of his companion. There was no idiocy, however, in the bright, keen eyes, twinkling with suppressed mirth, that were now lifted to his; and, taking off his hat, the stranger pointed to the hole, saying:

"On the whole, I think I have no particular fancy for being made a target of – especially for so good a shot as you. May I ask the name of the fair amazon I have been fortunate enough to meet?"

"You must be a stranger here not to know it. I have several names; the last and least of which is – Mrs. Wiseman. And yours?"

"Louis Oranmore, very much at your service," he answered, with a courtly bow.

"Oh!" Such a stare as he got from those bright eyes – such a quick flush of delight as overspread the pretty face beneath him – such a keen scrutiny as his face underwent at that moment. He noticed it, without pretending to do so; but there was an ill-repressed smile of amusement hovering about his finely-chiseled lip. Yet it was evident he did not recognize her.

The handsome, impetuous boy had grown into a tall, elegant, princely-looking man. His complexion, darkened by foreign suns to a clear, manly olive, was shaded by a profusion of jet-black curling hair. His fine dark eyes were bright, clear, almost piercing; his upper lip was shaded by a black mustache, but it did not conceal its scornful upward curve. Pride and passion, genius and unbending will were written in every lineament of that irresistibly handsome face; yet there was at times a winning softness in it, particularly when he smiled. He still bore a strong likeness to his dead father, save that Louis was much handsomer. There was something grand and noble in his tall yet slight figure, mingled with an ease and grace of manner that bespoke his acquaintance with polished society. His voice, that could at times ring with the clarion tones of command, never addressed a woman without being modulated to the softest and most musical of sounds. Such had our old favorite Louis become – very little like the Louis we once knew, we must own – very little like the guileless, innocent Louis, this gay young man of pleasure.

Perhaps something of all this was floating through the mind of Gipsy; for in spite of the admiration that shone in her now radiant face, she finished her scrutiny with a sigh.

"Well, fair lady, do you find me so very hideous that you thus turn away?" he asked, fixing his deep, dark eyes in evident amusement on her face.

Gipsy would have blushed had she known how; but it was something she knew very little about, so she merely answered:

"Well, I think I have seen persons almost as frightful looking as you before. You are a stranger here, I presume?"

"Yes; though this is my native village, yet I have been absent for many years in Europe. May I ask if you are acquainted with the inmates of Sunset Hall yonder?"

"Yes; I've seen them."

"Are they all well?"

"Why, yes, I believe so; all but Spi – I mean Dr. Wiseman."

"Dr. Wiseman! What has he to do there? – he does not belong to the family."

"Yes, he does."

"What?"

"He married a ward of Squire Erliston's – Gipsy – something, I think they called her. Gow – Gow – Gower, I believe, was the name – and then, with his daughter, came there to live."

"Why, is it possible? Has little Gipsy Gower married that old man – old enough to be her grandfather?" exclaimed Louis, in unbounded amazement.

"Yes."

"Well, after that, nothing will surprise me. And Archie never mentioned a word of it," said Louis, in a sort of soliloquy; "and my – and Mrs. Oranmore, how is she?"

"Pretty well. She has not been very strong lately."

"Poor mother! And the squire?"

"Is quite well."

"You reside in St. Mark's, I presume?"

"Why, yes. Nonsense, Louis! Don't you know me?"

"Hallo! No, it's not; yes, it is, though; it's Gipsy Gower, is it not?" cried Louis.

"No, sir. Mrs. Nicholas Wiseman, if you please," said Gipsy, drawing herself up.

"My dear little Gipsy, I am delighted to meet you again. How handsome you have grown! Allow me to embrace my little playmate?"

Accepting his salute with saucy cordiality, Gipsy turned her horse's head in the direction of the Hall.

"Tell me now, Louis, what brings you home so suddenly?" asked Gipsy.

"Why, to confess the truth, I grew tired of sight-seeing, and began to feel homesick for the old, familiar faces; so, wishing to surprise you all, I started without sending you word, and here I am. But, Gipsy, whatever possessed you to marry that old man?"

"Love, of course. People always marry for love, you know."

"Pshaw! Gipsy, I know better than that. Why did you jilt poor Archie? I met him in Paris, half crazy, one would imagine. He answered my questions rationally enough, until we came to speak of you, when he burst forth into a torrent of invectives against flirts and deceivers in general, and then seized his hat and fled from the room, leaving me to conjecture as best I might his meaning. Come, Gipsy, own up, are you not the cause of all this frenzy?"

Gipsy's face had grown very pale; her eyes were bent on the ground, her lips firmly compressed, as she answered, in a low, hurried voice:

"Louis, don't talk to me on this subject. I am wicked and wretched enough the best of times, but I always feel like a perfect fiend when this subject is mentioned. Suffice it for you to know that fate had decreed I should wed Dr. Wiseman; no earthly power could have prevented it, therefore I became his wife."

"Did they dare to force you?" exclaimed Louis, with a kindling eye. "If so – "

"No, no, Louis; I could have refused if I would. Don't mention this subject more. See, there is the old hall; and there at the gate stands Minnette Wiseman, my daughter now, you know. Is she not a beautiful girl?"

"Beautiful indeed!" exclaimed Louis, enthusiastically, pausing involuntarily to gaze upon her.

Splendid indeed looked Minnette. Her dress of black (she always wore black) fluttering in the morning breeze, and confined at the slender waist by a dark crimson belt. Her long, shiny blue-black hair was twined in classic braids around her superb head. Her glorious black eyes were fixed on the glancing waters of the bay, and no June rose ever bloomed a more brilliant crimson than the hue of her cheek. She might have been an Eastern queen – for her beauty was truly regal, with her dark, oriental face, and splendid Syrian eye; but there was too much fire and passion in her nature, and too few womanly traits and feelings.

"Oh, Minnette, guess who's come!" cried Gipsy, riding up to where she stood.

"Who?" said Minnette, breathlessly, as her eye fell on Louis.

The next moment she started convulsively; the blood rushed in torrents to her brow. She had recognized him, though Gipsy had not.

"It's Louis," said Gipsy – "Louis Oranmore! Come, Louis! come! Miss Minnette. I am going up to the house to tell them you have come."

She was off like a flash, up the lawn, and in the house, while Louis leaped from his horse, and with courtly grace raised Minnette's hand to his lips; while she, pressing her hand to her heart, that beat and throbbed as though it would force its way to him, strove to return his salutation. It was a strange thing to see the cold, marble-like Minnette so moved.

"How everything has changed since I left home!" said Louis; "the place itself seems changed, and you more than all. I left you a little girl, thoughtful beyond your years, and I return to find you – "

"The most beautiful woman my eyes ever rested on," he would have said, but she raised her head, and something in the expression of her face checked him.

No marble ever was whiter or more cold, as she said:

"Yes, all has changed, and none more so than your former favorite, Celeste."

"Ah! little Celeste – how is she? I had forgotten to ask for her. I trust she is well?"

"I presume so. I know nothing to the contrary."

"I remember her a lovely child; I suppose she is an equally lovely girl?" said Louis, carelessly.

A scorching, scathing glance shot from the lightning eyes of Minnette; but, without answering him, she turned away, and walked steadily into the house.

"Strange, incomprehensible girl!" said Louis, looking in surprise after her. "How that flashing glance reminds me of the Minnette of other days! Have I said anything to offend her, I wonder? Heigho! what a radiant creature she is, to be sure! What would not some of the gay court beauties I know give for that superb form and glorious face! Well, I must not fall in love with her, however, if I can help it. Here comes that airy little mountain sprite, Gipsy! and now for my lady mother!"

"Come, Louis, come!" she cried, darting in again.

Louis followed her as she led the way to his mother's chamber. Then opening the door, she ushered him in, and closing it after her, immediately retreated.

Lizzie sat in an easy-chair, a crimson shawl wrapped around her, her eyes bright, her pale cheeks flushed with expectation. She arose at his entrance, and the next moment was clasped in his arms, while their mutual exclamations were:

"My dear Louis!"

"My dearest mother!"

There was a moment's silence; then Lizzie raised her head and surveyed him from head to foot, her face sparkling with pride and admiration.

"How tall you have grown! and how handsome you are! – handsome enough for a king, I think, Louis!" she said, delightedly.

"Are kings handsomer than other people, my dear mother?" he said, with a smile.

"Why, I suppose so; I never saw one. You are the very image of your poor dead father, too! Dear me! what an age it seems since we parted last!" said Lizzie, sinking back in her seat, with a sigh.

"I am sorry to find you so ill, mother," said Louis, gazing sadly into her thin, pale face, from which the bright glow was fast fading.

"Oh, I am always worse in the spring than at any other time. In a month or two I will be quite a different-looking individual," said Lizzie, hopefully.

An hour passed away, and then there came a tap at the door. Louis arose and opened it, and beheld Gipsy.

"Well, Louis, if you're done talking to your mother, you'd better come down and see Guardy. He's just woke up, but he doesn't know yet you've come," said Gipsy.

Louis went down stairs, taking half the staircase at a bound in his haste. Pushing open the parlor door, he unceremoniously entered the presence of the squire, who, after his old habit, lay in a lounging chair, with his feet stretched upon another, smoking his pipe with the benign air of a man at peace with himself and the rest of mankind.