Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

It was finished at last. The pen dropped from her hand, and she arose to seek for the few gifts he had ever given her. A little golden locket, containing his likeness and a lock of his hair; her betrothal-ring; and the oft-mentioned gold cross. That was all.

She opened the likeness, and through all her heroism a wild, sharp thrill of anguish pierced her heart, as she gazed on those calm, beautiful features. The sable ring of hair twined itself round her fingers as though unwilling to leave her; but resolutely she replaced it, and drew off the plain gold circlet of their betrothal, and laid them side by side. Then her cross – it had never left her neck since the night he had placed it there. All the old tide of love swelled back to her heart as she gazed upon it. It seemed like rending her very heart-strings to take it off.

"I cannot! I cannot!" was her anguished cry, as her arm dropped powerless on the table.

"You must! you must! it is your duty!" cried the stern voice of conscience; and, with trembling fingers and blanched lips, the precious token was removed and laid beside the others.

Then, sealing them up, with one last, agonizing look, such as we might bestow on the face of a dear friend about to be consigned to the grave, she sealed and directed the packet, and then threw herself on her bed and pressed her hands over her eyes to hide out the face of her dead.

But in spite of sorrow, sleep will visit the afflicted, and a bright morning sunbeam fell like a halo on her pale face, calm in sleep, and on the golden eyelashes, still wet with undried tear-drops.

That same broad July sunbeam fell on Minnette lying prone on her face in the damp pine woods, her long, black hair and dark garments dropping with the soaking dew. The dark, lonely woods had been her couch the livelong night.

CHAPTER XXX.

GIPSY HUNTS NEW GAME

"And by the watch-fire's gleaming light,Close by his side was seenA huntress maid in beauty brightWith airy robes of green." – Scott.

It was early afternoon of that same day on which the events related in the last chapter occurred. Squire Erliston, in after-dinner mood, sat in his arm-chair; Louis lay idly on a lounge at a little distance, and Gipsy sat by the window, yawningly turning over a volume of prints. Mrs. Oranmore, swathed in shawls, lounged on her sofa, her prayerbook in her hand, taking a succession of short naps.

It was the squire's custom to go to sleep after dinner; but now, in his evident excitement, he seemed quite to forget it altogether.

"Yes, sir," he was saying to Louis, "the scoundrel actually entered the sheriff's house through the window, and carried off more than a hundred dollars, right under their very noses. It's monstrous! – it's outrageous! He deserves to be drawn and quartered for his villainy! And he will be, too, if he's taken. The country 'll soon be overrun with just such rascals, if the scoundrel isn't made an example of."

"Of whom are you speaking, papa?" inquired Lizzie, suddenly walking up.

"Of one of Drummond's negroes – a perfect ruffian; Big Tom, they call him. He's fled to the woods, and only makes his appearance at night. He stabbed young Drummond himself; and since then, he's committed all sorts of depredations. Simms, the sheriff, came down yesterday with constables to arrest them; and during the night, the scoundrel actually had the audacity to enter the sheriff's window, and decamped with a hundred dollars before they could take him. He met one of the constables in the yard as he was going out. The constable cried 'murder,' and seized him; but Big Tom – who is a regular giant – just lifted him up and hurled him over the wall, where he fell upon a heap of stones, breaking his collar-bone, two of his legs, 'and the rest of his ribs,' as Solomon says. The constable's not expected to live; and Big Tom got off to his den in safety with his booty."

"Why do they not scour the woods in a body?" inquired Louis.

"So they did; but – bless your soul! – it's like looking for a needle in a hay-stack – couldn't find him anywhere."

"Oh! it was capital fun!" said Gipsy, laughing, "it reminded me of 'hide-and-go-seek' more than anything else. Once or twice they caught sight of me through the bushes, and taking me for poor Tom, came pretty near firing on me. Simms made them stop, and called to me to surrender to the law, or I'd repent it. Accordingly, I surrendered, and rode out, and – my goodness! – if they didn't look blue when they saw me! I burst right out laughing in their face, and made Simms so mad that I guess he wished he had let his men shoot me. Oh! didn't I have a jolly time, though! I took them, by various artifices, miles out of their way – generally leaving them half-swamped in a bog, or in some pathless part of the woods – until Simms lost all patience, and swore till he was black in the face, and rode home in a towering passion, all covered with mud, and his fine city clothes torn to tatters. Ha, ha, ha! I guess I enjoyed it, if they didn't."

"As mischievous as ever!" exclaimed the squire. "Pretty way, that, to treat the officers of the law in the discharge of their duty! How will you like it, if that black demon comes here some night, and murders us all in our beds?"

Lizzie uttered a stifled shriek at the idea.

"I'm sure I'll be glad of it, if he only murders Spider first, and so save me the trouble," said Gipsy.

"You're an affectionate wife, 'pon my word," muttered Louis.

"Yes; but it's just like the diabolical young imp," growled the squire.

"Thank you – you're complimentary," muttered Gipsy.

"Mind you," continued the squire, "while Big Tom's at liberty you must leave off your rides through the woods and over the hills – because he might be the death of you at any moment."

"More likely I'd be the death of him. I never was born to be killed by a ruffian."

"No; for if the gallows had its dues – "

"You wouldn't be here to-day," interrupted Gipsy.

"Come – don't interrupt me, young woman. I positively forbid you or any one in this place riding out while Big Tom's roaming about."

"That's right, Guardy – show your authority. Nothing like keeping it up, you know. And now, as I'm off to give Mignonne an airing, I'll think of your commands by the way."

And the disobedient elf arose to leave the room.

"But, my dear, tantalizing little coz, it really is dangerous," interrupted Louis. "If you were to encounter this gigantic negro, alone, it would be rather a serious affair, I'm afraid."

"Bother!" exclaimed the polite and courteous Mrs. Wiseman. "Do you s'pose I'm afraid – Gipsy Gower afraid! Whew! I like that! Make your mind easy, my dear Louis. I could face a regiment on Mignonne's back without flinching."

And Gipsy darted off to don her riding-habit, singing as she went:

"Some love to roamO'er the dark sea foam,Where the shrill winds whistle free;But a chosen bandIn the mountain land,And a life in the woods for me."

Ten minutes afterward they saw her ride out of the court-yard at her usual furious rate, and dash away over the hills, where she was speedily out of sight.

Gipsy must have had some of the Arab in her nature; for she spent almost her whole life on horseback. She heeded not the flight of time, as she thundered along, riding in the most hazardous places – sometimes narrowly escaping being dashed to pieces over precipices – sometimes leaping yawning chasms that would make many a stout hunter's head giddy. The excitement was a part – a necessity – of her nature. The almost stagnant life in the village would have driven the hot-headed, impetuous girl wild, but for the mad excitement of the chase. Brave as a young lioness – bold and free as the eagle of her native mountains – she scorned fear, and sought danger as others do safety. She knew it was putting her head into the lion's mouth to venture alone into this wild, unfrequented region, within arm's length of a desperate villain, hunted down like a furious beast; yet the idea of not venturing here never once entered her mad little head.

It was growing dark before Gipsy began to think of turning her steps homeward. Reluctantly she turned her horse's head, and set out for Mount Sunset – half regretting she had met with no adventure worth relating on her return.

As she rapidly galloped along she discovered she had ridden much farther than she had intended, and that it would be late ere she reached the hall. The dim starlight alone guided her path; for the moon had not yet risen. But Mignonne was so well accustomed to the road that he could have found his way in the dark; and Gipsy rode on gayly, humming to herself a merry hunting-chorus.

Suddenly a gleam of light from between the trees flashed across their path. Mignonne, like his mistress, being only a half-tamed thing at best, reared suddenly upright, and would have dashed off at headlong speed, had not Gipsy held the reins with a grasp of iron. Her strength was wonderful for a creature so small and slight; but her vigorous exercise had given her thews and muscles of steel. Mignonne felt he was in the hand of a master-spirit, and after a few fierce bounds and plunges, stood still and surrendered.

Rapidly alighting, Gipsy bound her horse securely, and then stole noiselessly through the trees. The cause of the light was soon discovered; and Gipsy beheld a sight that, daring and fearless as she was, for a moment froze the very blood in her veins.

A small semicircle was before her, in the center of which the remains of a fire still glowed, casting a hot, reddish glare around. By its lurid light the huge figure of a gigantic negro, whose hideous face was now frightfully convulsed with rage. On her knees at his feet was a woman, whom he grasped with one hand by the throat, and with the other brandished over her head a long, murderous knife. The sight for a moment left Gipsy's eyes, and her very heart ceased beating. Then, with the rapidity of lightning, she drew a pistol, aimed and fired.

One second more and she would have been too late. With the shriek of a madman the huge negro leaped into the air, and bounded to where she stood. She turned to fly, but ere she had advanced a yard she was in the furious grasp of the wounded monster. His red eyes were like balls of fire, he foamed, he roared with rage and pain, as with one huge hand he raised the slight form of Gipsy to dash out her brains.

In that moment of deadly peril the brave girl was as cool and self-possessed as though she were seated in safety in her guardian's parlor. A gleaming knife was stuck in his belt. Quick as thought she drew it out, and, concentrating all her strength, she plunged it in his breast.

The hot blood spurted in a gush up in her face. Without a cry the ruffian reeled, his hand relaxed, and Gipsy sprang from his grasp just as he fell heavily to the ground.

Gipsy staggered against a tree, with a deadly inclination to swoon coming over her. She covered her face with her hands to hide the ghastly form of the huge negro, lying weltering in his own blood before her. She had taken a life; and though it was done in self-defense, and to save the life of another, it lay on her heart like lead.

The thought of that other at length aroused her to action. Darting through the trees she approached the fire. The woman lay on the ground, senseless, and half strangled. The firelight, as it fell upon her, showed the face and form of an old woman, upward of fifty, poorly clad, and garments half torn off in the scuffle.

The sight restored Gipsy to her wonted composure. Kneeling down, she began chafing the old woman's hands and temples with an energy that soon restored her to consciousness. She opened her eyes and glared for a moment wildly around; then, as consciousness returned, she uttered shriek upon shriek, making the forest resound.

"Stop your screaming," said Gipsy, shaking her in her excitement. "You're safe enough now. Stop, will you. I tell you you're safe."

"Safe!" repeated the woman, wildly. "Oh, that drefful nigger – "

"He won't hurt you any more. Stop your noise, and get up, and come with me!" said Gipsy, impatiently.

"Oh! Lor' a massey! I can't git up. I'm all out o' j'int. I'm dead entirely!" groaned the woman.

"Then I shall leave you here," said Gipsy, rising.

"Oh, don't leave me! – don't, for God's sake! I'd die o' fear!" screamed the woman, grasping Gipsy's dress.

"Then, you stupid old thing, get up and come along," cried Gipsy, losing all patience, as she seized her with no gentle hand, and pulled her to her feet.

"Where 'll I go?" said the poor old creature, trembling with mortal terror, evidently as much afraid of the fierce little Amazon before her, as of the huge negro.

"This way," said Gipsy, pulling her along to where stood her horse. "Now, get up there, and put your arms around my waist, and hold on for your life."

"Oh! dear me! I never rid a horseback in my life, and I'll fall off – I know I will!" said the old woman, wringing her hands in fresh distress.

"Well, I can't help it; you'll have to make the attempt, or stay here till I reach St. Mark's, and rouse up the people. Which will you do?"

"Oh! I dassent stay. I'll go 'long with you, somehow."

"Very well. Up with you then," said Gipsy, almost lifting her into the saddle. "Now, I'll get on before you, and mind, if you don't hold on well, you'll never reach the village alive."

With the clutch of mortal fear, the old lady grasped Gipsy round the waist, and held on for dear life, until Mount Sunset was gained, when, more dead than alive, she was assisted to alight, and consigned to the care of the servants.

Louis, who had just returned from his interview with Celeste, was in the parlor with the squire, meditating how he should make his proposal, when Gipsy, pale, wild, and disordered, her hair disheveled, and her garments dyed with blood, burst in upon them, electrifying them with amazement.

Great was their consternation as they listened to the rapidly-told tale. There was no time left to congratulate her on her narrow escape, for she impetuously commanded Louis to mount immediately and take three or four of the servants to bring away the body.

With a rapidity almost as great as her own, her counsels were obeyed, and Gipsy, with Louis beside her, started back to the scene of the catastrophe, followed by four of the servants.

They reached the spot at last, and Gipsy drew back in dismay as she discovered the body was gone.

"Who can have carried it off?" she exclaimed, aghast.

"I rather think he has carried himself off," said Louis, who had been attentively examining the ground.

"Oh, impossible! He was dead, I tell you – just as dead as ever he could be," said Gipsy.

"Well, dead or not, he has made his escape," said Louis. "See, the grass is dyed with blood all along, showing the way he has gone. Come, the trail is plain enough, let us follow it."

All dismounted and followed Louis. Not far had they to go, for lying by the fire was the burly form of the negro. He had evidently, with much difficulty, dragged himself thus far, and then sank down exhausted.

He rolled his glaring eyes fiercely on the faces bending over him, and gnashed his teeth in impotent rage as he saw Gipsy.

"Thank God! I have not killed him!" was her first fervent ejaculation. Then, while Louis and the servants began making a sort of litter, she knelt beside him, and strove to stanch the flowing blood, undeterred by the wild, ferocious glare of his fiery eyes.

"Now, Tom, look here," said Gipsy, as she composedly went on with her work, "there's no use in your looking daggers at me that way, because it don't alarm me a bit. You needn't be mad at me either, for though I fired on you first, it was to save the life of an old woman, who might have been a loss to the world; and if I made use of your knife afterward, it was to save the life of Mrs. Doctor Nicholas Wiseman, who would have been a greater loss still. So you see I couldn't help myself, and you may as well look at the matter in the same light."

By this time the rest came back with a sort of litter; and groaning and writhing with pain, the heavy form of the wounded giant was lifted on their shoulders, and borne toward the village, where it was consigned to the care of the sheriff, who was thunderstruck when he heard of Gipsy's daring.

On their return to Sunset Hall, they learned from the old woman, who seemed threatened with a severe illness, how it had all occurred.

She was a "poor, lone woman," she said – a widow, named Mrs. Donne, living by herself for ten odd years, in a little cottage beyond St. Mark's.

She was reputed to be rich – a rumor she never contradicted, as it made her neighbors treat her with distinction, in the hope that she would remember them in her will.

Big Tom, hearing the rumor, and believing it, came to her cottage, and demanded money. She had none to give him, and told him so, which exasperated him beyond measure. He threatened to kill her if she persisted in refusing, and gagged her to stifle her cries. Then, finding her still obstinate, he carried her off with him to the spot where Gipsy had found them, and again offered her her life if she would deliver up her money. Still she was forced to refuse, and maddened with rage and disappointment, he was about to murder her, when Gipsy providentially appeared, and saved her life.

Not without many interruptions was this story told; and ere it was concluded, Mrs. Donne was in a high fever. Gipsy installed herself as nurse, and listened in wonder and surprise to her raving of infants left to perish in snow-storms, and her wild words of sorrow and remorse for some past crime.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CELESTE'S TRIAL

"This morn is merry June, I trow,The rose is budding fain;But she shall bloom in winter snow,Ere we two meet again.He turned his charger as he spoke,Upon the river shore;He gave the reins a shake, and said,Adieu forevermore,My love!Adieu forevermore."

"Marry Celeste Pearl! – a girl without a farthing! a beggar! a foundling! I'm astonished, thunderstruck, speechless, sir, at your audacity in proposing such a thing! I have objections, sir – most de-cided objections, sir! Don't ever let me hear you mention such a thing again!"

And Squire Erliston stamped up and down, red with rage and indignation.

Louis stood with darkening brows, flashing eyes, and folded arms, before him – outwardly quiet, but compressing his lips to keep down the fiery tide of his rising passion.

"What are your objections, sir?" he asked, with forced calmness.

"Objections! Why, sir, there's so many objections that I can't enumerate them. First place, she hasn't a cent; second, nobody knows who or what she is; third, she'll never do for my granddaughter-in-law. Therefore, sir, please drop the subject; I never want to hear anything more about it – for I shouldn't consent if you were to plead on your knees. The girl's a good girl enough in her place, but she won't do for the wife of Louis Oranmore. What, sir, consent that you, the heir to the richest landed estate this side the north pole, should marry a poor, unknown beggar-girl, who has lived all her life on the charity of others! No, sir, never!" said the squire, furiously, flinging himself into his chair, and mopping his inflamed visage.

The face of Louis was white with suppressed rage, and with an expression of ungovernable anger, he burst from the room. In his fierce excitement he saw not whither he went, until he ran full against Totty, who was entering, with a letter in her hand.

"Lor', Mas'r Lou, how you scare me! You like to knock me upside down. Hi! here's a 'pistle for you, what Curly, old Miss Ager's gal, brought over, an' told me her young Miss 'Sless sent you."

"From Celeste," exclaimed Louis, snatching it from her hand and tearing it open. His gifts fell to the floor; and scarcely able to believe his senses, he read its contents – his brow growing darker and darker as he read. He crushed it fiercely in his hand as he finished, and paced up and down the long hall like a madman.

"And such is woman's love!" he exclaimed, with a scornful laugh. "She gives me up, and bids me be happy with Minnette. What drove that jealous girl to love me; and to make Celeste believe I loved her first? Everything seems to cross my path – this mad girl's passion, and my grandfather's obstinate refusal. Well, she shall be mine, in spite of fate. I will marry her privately, and take her with me to Italy. Yes, that is the only plan. I will ride over to the cottage, and obtain her consent; and then, let those I leave behind do as they will, my happiness will be complete."

So saying, he quitted the house, mounted his horse, and rode rapidly toward the cottage.

Celeste was in the garden, binding up a broken rose-bush – looking paler, but lovelier than ever. She uttered a half-stifled cry as she saw him, and the last trace of color faded from her face as he leaped from his horse and stood beside her.

"Celeste, what means this?" he demanded, impetuously. "Do you really believe this tale told you by Minnette?"

"Oh, Louis, is it not true?" exclaimed Celeste, clasping her hands.

"True! Celeste, Celeste! do you take me to be such a villain? As heaven hears me, I never spoke a word of love to her in my life!"

This was true in the letter, but not in the spirit. He had never spoken of love to Minnette, but he had looked it often enough.

"Thank heaven!" exclaimed Celeste, impulsively, while she bowed her face in her hands and wept.

"Dear Celeste," said Louis, drawing her gently toward him, "do you retract those cruel words you have written? You will not give me up, will you?"

"Oh, no! not now," replied Celeste, yielding to his embrace. "Oh, Louis, what do you suppose made Minnette say such dreadful things to me last night?"

"Because – I beg you will not think me conceited, dearest – she fancies she loves me, and is jealous of you. Perhaps, too, she thinks if I did not love you, I might return her affection; and the only way to end her chimerical hopes is by our immediate union. Say, dear love, when will you be mine?"

"Oh, Louis! I do not know," said Celeste, blushing scarlet. "I do not want to be married so soon, and – you must ask your grandfather."

"I have asked him, dearest."

"And he – "

"Refused! I knew it would be so. He is obstinate and eccentric. But, Celeste, his refusal need make no difference to us."

She raised her blue eyes to his face, with a look of unconcealed wonder.

"We can be privately wedded, and I will take you with me to Europe, where we will reside until I have succeeded in pacifying the squire with my course."

She stood before him, looking calmly and gravely in his face. His voice was low, but full of passion, and he saw not that earnest, sorrowful gaze.

"Say, Celeste – dearest Celeste – do you consent?" he asked, his eyes filled with fire, as he strove to clasp her. She shrank away, almost in fear, and pushed back his hands.

"Oh, Louis! don't, don't," she cried, sadly.

"But you will consent? you will go with me?" he said, eagerly, passionately.

"Oh, no, no! – no, no! I cannot – it is impossible."

"Impossible! Why, Celeste?"

"It would be wrong."

"Wrong! Because an old man objects to your want of fortune, it would be wrong to marry me. Nonsense, Celeste!"

"It would be wrong to disobey your grandfather, Louis."

"Not in a case like this, Celeste. I am not bound to obey him when he is unreasonable."

"He is not unreasonable in this, Louis. It is very reasonable he should wish you to marry one your equal in wealth and social position."

"And would you have me marry for wealth and social position, Celeste?" he asked, reproachfully.

"Oh! no, no! Heaven forbid! But I would not marry you against his will. We can wait – a few years will not make much difference, dear Louis. We are both young, and can afford to be patient."

"Patience! Don't talk to me of patience!" he exclaimed, passionately. "You never loved me; if you had you would not stand thus on a little point of decorum. You are your own mistress – you have no parents to whom you owe obedience; my mother is willing enough, and yet, because an old man objects to your want of money, you stand there in your cold dignity, and exhort me to be patient and wait. Celeste, I will not wait. You must come with me to Italy!"