Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

Archie, having paid her a shower of compliments, took her by the hand and set out with her for Sunset Hall. At the gate Celeste halted, and no persuasions could induce her to enter.

"No, no; I'll wait here until you come back. Please let me," she said, pleadingly.

"Oh, well, then, I won't be long," said Archie, rushing frantically up the lawn and bursting like a whirlwind into the hall door.

In a few moments he reappeared, accompanied by Louis.

"Look, old fellow! there she is at the gate. Isn't she a beauty?" said Archie.

Louis stopped and gazed, transfixed by the radiant vision before him. In her floating, snowy robes, golden hair, her sweet, angel-like face, on which the morning sunshine rested like a glory, she was indeed lovely, bewildering, dazzling.

"How beautiful! how radiant! how splendid! Archie, she is as pretty as an angel!" burst forth Louis, impetuously.

"Ha, ha ha! a decided case of love at first sight. Come along and I'll introduce you," exclaimed Archie.

Having presented the admiring Louis to Celeste, who, after the first shy glance, never raised her eyes, he informed her that Gipsy had gone out riding early in the morning, and they were forced to go without her.

"Celeste, you must sit to me for your portrait," said Louis, impulsively, as they walked along.

"I don't know," said Celeste, shrinking closer to Archie, whom she had learned to trust in like an old friend.

"I'm sketching the 'Madonna in the Temple' for Sister Mary, and your sweet, holy, calm face will do exactly for a model," said Louis.

"That's a compliment, sis," said Archie, pinching her cheek; "you'd better sit. Hallo! if that isn't Gipsy's bugle! And here she comes, as usual, flying like the wind. If she doesn't break her neck some day, it will be a wonder."

As he spoke, the clear, sweet notes of a bugle resounded musically among the hills above them; and the next moment the spirited little Arabian, Mignonne, came dashing at a break-neck pace down the rocks, with Gipsy on his back, a fowling-piece slung over her shoulder, and sitting her horse as easily as though she were in an easy-chair. With a wild "tally-ho!" she cleared a yawning chasm at a bound, and reined her horse in so suddenly that he nearly fell back on his haunches. The next instant she was beside them, laughing at Celeste, who clung, pale with fear, to Archie.

"What luck this morning, Diana?" exclaimed Archie.

"Pretty well for two hours. Look!" said Gipsy, displaying a well-filled game-bag.

"Did you kill those birds?" inquired Celeste, lifting her eyes in fear, not unmixed with horror, to the sparkling face of the young huntress.

"To be sure! There! don't look so horror-struck. I declare if the little coward doesn't look as if she thought me a demon," said Gipsy, laughing at Celeste's sorrowful face. "Look! do you see that bird away up there, like a speck in the sky? Well, now watch me bring it down;" and Gipsy, fixing her eagle eye on the distant speck, took deliberate aim.

"Oh, don't – don't!" cried Celeste, in an agony of terror; but ere the words were well uttered, they were lost in the sharp crack of her little rifle.

Wounded and bleeding, the bird began rapidly to fall, and, with a wild shriek, Celeste threw up her arms, and fell to the ground.

"Good gracious! if I haven't scared the life out of Celeste!" exclaimed Gipsy, in dismay, as Archie raised her, pale and trembling, in his arms.

"What a timid little creature!" thought Louis, as he watched her, clinging convulsively to Archie.

"Oh, the bird! the poor bird!" said Celeste, bursting into tears.

Gipsy laughed outright, and pointing to a tree near at hand, said:

"There, Louis, the bird has lodged in that tree; go and get it for her."

Louis darted off to search the tree, and Gipsy, stooping down, said, rather impatiently:

"Now, Celeste, don't be such a little goose! What harm is it to shoot a bird? – everybody does it."

"I don't think it's right; it's so cruel. Please don't do it any more," said Celeste, pleadingly.

"Can't promise, dear? I must do something to keep me out of mischief. But here comes Louis. Well, is it dead?"

"No," said Louis, "but badly wounded. However, I'll take care of it; and if it recovers, Celeste, you shall have it for a pet."

"Oh, thank you! you're so good," said Celeste, giving him such a radiant look of gratitude that it quite overcame the gravity of Master Rivers, who fell back, roaring with laughter.

Celeste and Gipsy stood a little apart, conversing, and the boys sat watching them.

"I say, Louis, what do you think of her?" said Archie, pointing to Celeste.

"I think she is perfectly bewitching – the loveliest creature I ever beheld," replied Louis, regarding her with the eye of an artist. "She reminds me of a lily – a dove, so fair, and white, and gentle."

"And Gipsy, what does she remind you of?"

"Oh! of a young Amazon, or a queen eaglet of the mountains, so wild and untamed."

"And Minnette, what is she like?"

"Like a tigress, more than anything else I can think of just now," said Louis, laughing; "beautiful, but rather dangerous when aroused."

"Aroused! I don't think she could be aroused, she is made of marble."

"Not she. As Miss Hagar says, the day will come when she will, she must feel; every one does sometime in his life. What does Scott say:

"'Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent;Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent.'"

"Well, if you take to poetry, you'll keep us here all day," said Archie, rising. "Good-bye, Gipsy; come along Celeste!"

True to promise, Louis adopted the wounded bird; and under his skillful hands it soon recovered and was presented to Celeste. She would have set it free, but Louis said: "No; keep it for my sake, Celeste." And so Celeste kept it; and no words can tell how she grew to love that bird. It hung in a cage in her chamber, and her greatest pleasure was in attending it. Minnette hated the very sight of it. That it belonged to Celeste would have been enough to make her hate it; but added to that, it had been given her by Louis Oranmore, the only living being Minnette had ever tried to please; and jealousy added tenfold to her hatred.

Seeing the bird hanging, one day, out in the sunshine, she opened the cage-door, and, with the most fiendish and deliberate malice, twisted its neck, and then, going to Celeste, pointed to it with malignant triumph sparkling in her bold, black eyes.

Poor Celeste! She took the dead and mangled body of her pretty favorite in her lap, and sitting down, wept the bitterest tears she had ever shed in her life. Let no one smile at her childish grief; who has been without them? I remember distinctly the saddest tears that ever I shed were over the remains of a beloved kitten, stoned to death. And through all the troubles of after years, that first deep grief never was forgotten.

While she was still sobbing as if her heart would break, a pair of strong arms were thrown around her, and the eager, handsome face of Louis was bending over her.

"Why, Celeste, what in the world are all those tears for?" he inquired, pushing the disheveled golden hair off her wet cheek.

"Oh, Louis, my bird! my poor bird!" she cried, hiding her face on his shoulder, in a fresh burst of grief.

"What! it's dead, is it?" said Louis, taking it up. "Did the cat get at it?"

"No, no; it wasn't the cat; it was – it was – "

"Who?" said Louis, while his dark eyes flashed. "Did any one dare to kill it? Did Minnette, that young tigress – "

"Oh, Louis! don't, don't! You mustn't call her such dreadful names!" said Celeste, placing her hand over his mouth. "I don't think she meant it; don't be angry with her, please; it's so dreadful!"

"You little angel!" he said, smoothing gently her fair hair; "no, for your sake I'll not. Never mind, don't cry; I'll get you another, twice as pretty as that!"

"No, Louis; I don't want any more! I'd rather have the dear birds free! And now, will you – will you bury poor birdie?" said Celeste, almost choking in her effort to be "good and not cry."

"Yes; here's a nice spot, under the rose-bush," said Louis; "and I'll get a tombstone and write a nice epitaph. And you must console yourself with the belief that it's happy in the bird's heaven, if there is such a place," added Louis, as he placed poor "Birdie" in its last resting-place.

Half an hour after, Celeste sought the presence of Minnette. She found her sitting by the window, her chin resting on her hand, as was her habit, gazing out. She did not turn round as Celeste entered; but the latter went up softly, and, placing her hand on hers, said gently:

"Minnette, I'm afraid you're angry with me? I'm very sorry; please forgive me?"

Minnette shook her roughly off, exclaiming:

"Don't bother me, you little whining thing! Go out of this!"

"Yes; but only say you forgive me, first! Indeed, indeed, Minnette, I didn't mean to offend you. I want to love you, if you'll let me!"

"Love!" exclaimed Minnette, springing fiercely to her feet, her black eyes gleaming like fire. "You artful little hypocrite! You consummate little cheat? Don't talk to me of love! Didn't I see you in the garden, with your arms around Louis Oranmore, in a way for which you ought to be ashamed of yourself – complaining to him of my wickedness and cruelty in killing the bird he gave you. And yet, after turning him against me, you come here, and tell me you love me! Begone, you miserable little beggar! I hate the very sight of you!"

Her face was convulsed with passion. With a cry of terror, Celeste fled from the room to weep alone in her own chamber, while Minnette sat by the window, watching the stars come out in their splendor, one by one, with the germs of that jealousy taking deep root in her soul, that would grow and bear fruit for evermore!

CHAPTER XIII.

GIPSY ASTONISHES THE NATIVES

"What mighty mischief glads her now?"

Fire Worshipers.

Among the villagers of St. Mark's, the mad-headed, wild-eyed, fearless Gipsy Gower was a universal favorite. Not one among them but had received from her warm heart and generous hand some service. The squire furnished his "imp" plentifully with pocket-money, which was invariably bestowed with careless generosity upon the poor of the parish; but given in a way that precluded all thanks. Sometimes the door would be thrust open with such violence as to wake the inmates, thinking a troop of horse was about to favor them with a visit, and her purse flung into the middle of the floor; and away she would ride like a flash. But on these occasions they were never at a loss to know the donor. If, on her next visit, they began to thank her for her gift, Gipsy indignantly denied all knowledge of it, and positively refused to listen to them.

Dr. Wiseman, who was a pretty extensive land-owner, had several tenants in the remotest part of the village, whom he forced to pay an exorbitant rent, giving them to understand that unless they paid it on the very day it came due, out they must go! One evening, about dusk, Gipsy, who had been riding out, was overtaken by a storm of wind and rain, and sought shelter in one of the cottages.

On entering she found the whole family in deep distress. The head of the family sat gazing moodily at the fire: his wife, surrounded by her children, was weeping; and they, following her example, had set up a clamorous cry.

"Why, what's up now? What's the matter, Mrs. Brown?" inquired Gipsy, in surprise.

"Oh, Miss Gipsy! is it you? Sit down. Alas, it's the last time we can ever ask you!" said the woman, with a fresh burst of tears.

"Why, are you going to turn me out the next time I come?" said Gipsy, taking the proffered seat.

"Heaven forbid we'd ever turn you out, Miss Gipsy, after all you've done for us!" said the woman; "but after to-night we'll no longer have a roof to shelter us."

"You won't, eh? Do you intend to set fire to this old shanty, and burn it down?" inquired Gipsy.

"No, no; but Dr. Wiseman was here for his rent (this is pay-day, you know), and we haven't a cent in the house to give him. Mr. Brown's been sick mostly all summer, and all we could make it took to feed the children. And now Dr. Wiseman says he'll turn us out, to starve or beg, to-morrow," replied the woman through her tears.

"The old sinner!" exclaimed Gipsy, through her hard-closed teeth. "Did you ask him to give you time to pay?"

"Yes, I went on my knees, and begged him to spare us for a few months, and we would pay him every cent; but he wouldn't. He said he would give us until to-morrow morning, and if we didn't have it then, out we must go."

For a moment Gipsy was silent, compressing her lips to keep down her fiery wrath, while the woman wept more passionately than ever.

"Have his other tenants paid him?" inquired Gipsy, at length.

"Yes, all but us."

"When did he start for home?"

"Not five minutes ago?"

"Which way did he take?" said Gipsy, springing to her feet, and beginning to examine her pistols.

"He went over the hills," said the man at the fire, speaking now for the first time; "I heard them say he was afraid to be robbed if he went round by the road, as he had all the money he got from the tenants with him."

"All right, then, Mrs. Brown, my dear woman. Keep up heart; and if some good fairy gets you out of this scrape, don't say a word about it. Good night."

"You had better not venture alone in the storm," said Mrs. Brown, anxiously; "one of the boys will go with you."

"Thank you, there's no necessity. I feel safer on Mignonne's back than with all the boys that ever afflicted the world for its sins for a body-guard. So mind my words, 'hold on to the last,' as the shoemaker said, and don't despair."

The last words were lost in the storm of wind and rain, as she opened the door. Springing on the back of Mignonne, she turned his head in the direction of the hills, and sped over the ground as rapidly as her fleet-footed Arabian could carry her.

Through the night, and wind, and rain, over the dangerous hilly path jogged Dr. Wiseman. He scarcely felt the storm, for a talisman in the shape of a well-filled pocket-book lay pressed to his avaricious heart. His mare, a raw-boned old brute, as ugly as her master, walked along slowly, manifesting a sublime contempt for storm and wind that would have done the heart of a philosopher good. What her thoughts were about it, would be hard to say; but her master's ran on money, robbers, highwaymen, and other such "knights of the road."

"There are many desperate characters in the village who know I have a large sum of money about me, and who would no more mind waylaying, robbing, and perhaps murdering me, than I would of turning the Brown's out to-morrow. Luckily, however, they'll think I've taken the village road," said the doctor to himself, in a sort of soliloquy, "and so I'll escape them. But this road is a dismal one, and seems just the place for a rendezvous of robbers. Now, if a highwayman were to step up from behind one of these rocks, and cry – "

"Your money or your life!" cried a deep, sepulchral voice at his ear, with such startling suddenness that, with an exclamation of horror and fear, the doctor nearly fell from his seat.

Recovering himself, he strove to see the robber, but in the deep darkness and beating rain it was impossible. But though he couldn't see, he could hear, and the sharp click of a pistol distinctly met his ear.

"Your money or your life!" repeated the low, hoarse voice, in an imperious tone.

For reply, the doctor, rendered desperate by the fear of losing his money, drew a pistol and fired. As it flashed, he saw for a moment a horse standing before him, but the rider seemed to have lain flat down, for no man was there. Ere he could draw his second pistol, his horse was grasped by the bridle-rein, and the cold muzzle of a pistol was pressed to his temple.

"Your money or your life!" cried a fierce, excited voice that terror alone prevented him from recognizing. "Deliver up your money, old man, or this instant you shall die."

"Oh, spare my life!" cried the wretched doctor, in an agony of terror, for the cold ring of steel still pressed his temple like the deadly fang of a serpent. "Spare my life, for God's sake, and you shall have all! I'm a poor man, but you shall have it."

"Quick, then," was the imperious rejoinder, as the doctor fumbled in his pockets, and at last, with a deep groan of despair, surrendered the plump pocket-book to the daring outlaw.

"That is all I have; now let me go," cried the miserable doctor.

"Yes; but first you must solemnly swear never to speak to man, woman, or child of what has occurred to-night. Swear by your own miserable soul!"

"I swear!" groaned the unhappy doctor.

"And lest you should be tempted to commit perjury, and break your oath, let me tell you that the very first attempt to do so will be followed by instant death. Mind! I will watch you day and night, dog your steps like a blood-hound, and if you dare to breathe it to living mortal, that moment will be your last."

"I'll never mention it! I'll never speak of it. Oh, let me go," implored the agonized Galen.

"Very well, then. I have the honor to wish you good-night. If you don't ride straight home, I'll send a bullet through your head."

And with this cheering assurance the robber put spurs to the horse, and rode off in the direction opposite to that leading to Deep Dale.

Little need was there to exhort the terror-stricken doctor to ride straight home. Never before had the spavined old mare fled over the ground with the velocity she did that night, and Doctor Wiseman did not breathe freely until he was double-locked in his own room.

The Browns paid their rent the next day, and would no longer remain tenants of the doctor. If he suspected any one, the robber's threat caused him prudently to remain silent; but his wretched look was an unfailing subject of mirth for Gipsy Gower for a month after, and the cunning twinkle of her eye said as plainly as words:

"I know, but I won't tell."

One day, Gipsy fell into deeper disgrace with the squire than had ever occurred before. In fact, it was quite an outrageous thing, and the only apology I can offer for her is, that she meant no harm.

The Bishop of B., Senator Long, and a number of distinguished gentlemen and ladies from the city had come to St. Mark's to spend a few days. Squire Erliston, as a matter of course, immediately called to see his friends, and a few days after gave a large dinner-party, to which they were all invited.

The important day for the dinner-party arrived. Lizzie was up in her room, dressing. Mrs. Gower was superintending affairs in the dining-room. The squire, in full dress, sat alone, awaiting his friends. As he sat, sleep overpowered him, and unconsciously he sank into a profound slumber.

While he was snoring in peace, little dreaming of the fate awaiting him, that little imp of mischief, Gipsy, entered. One glance sufficed, and across her fertile brain there shot a demoniacal project of mischief, while her whole form became instinct, and her wicked eyes scintillated with fun.

Quitting the room, she returned presently with a box of lampblack in one hand, and the mustard-pot in the other.

"Now, Guardy, you keep still a little while till I turn you into an Indian chief, and here goes for your war-paint."

So saying, the little wretch drew a streak of mustard across his nose, following it by a similar one of lampblack. And so she continued until his whole face was covered with alternate stripes of yellow and black, scarcely able to repress a shout of laughter as she worked, at the unspeakably ludicrous appearance he presented.

Having exhausted her supply of paint, Gipsy stepped to the door to survey her work, and unable longer to restrain a roar of laughter, fled to her room, quivering with the anticipation of the fun to come.

Scarcely had she quitted the room when the door was flung open, and, in pompous tones, the servant announced:

"De Right Reveren' Bishop of B., de Hon'ble Senator Long and Mrs. Long."

And the whole party, half a dozen in number, entered the apartment.

The noise awoke the squire; and a most musical snore was mercilessly interrupted, and ended in a hysterical snort. Starting to his feet with an expression of countenance that utterly repudiated the idea of his having been asleep, he advanced with extended hand toward the bishop. That high functionary drew back for a moment aghast, and glanced at his companions in horror. Human nature could stand it no longer, and a universal shout of laughter resounded through the room.

"Eh? What? Lord bless me, what's the matter?" said the squire, turning his face from one to another, inwardly wondering if they had all gone mad. "What are you laughing at?"

A fresh roar of laughter from the whole party answered this, as they all pressed their hands to their sides, utterly unable to stop. Seeing this, the squire at last began grinning with sympathy, thereby adding so much to the ludicrousness of his appearance, that some threw themselves on the floor, some on chairs and sofas, in perfect convulsions.

"What the deuce is it?" repeated the squire, at last losing patience. "Will you oblige me by telling me what the matter is?"

"My dear sir," began the bishop, in tremulous tones.

The squire turned his painted face eagerly toward the speaker. In vain he attempted to proceed, it was not in human nature to withstand that face, and the bishop fell back in a paroxysm that threatened never to end.

It was a scene for an artist. The row of convulsed faces around, pausing for a moment breathlessly, but breaking forth louder than ever the minute their eyes again fell upon him. And there sat the squire with his black and yellow face, turning in dismay from one to another, his round bullet-eyes ready to pop from their sockets.

At this moment the door opened, and Lizzie, Louis, and Mrs. Gower, followed by all the servants in the house, attracted by the noise, burst into the room. The moment their eyes fell on the squire, who had started to his feet to address them, their looks of surprise vanished and, as if by one accord, shout after shout of laughter broke from all. In vain did the squire stamp, and fume, and demand to know what was the matter; his only answer was a fresh explosion of mirth.

At last, in despair, Mrs. Gower managed to point to a mirror opposite. The squire rushed frantically to the spot, and then paused, transfixed, aghast with horror. Turning slowly round, he confronted his guests with such a look of blank, utter dismay, that all the laughter previous was nothing to the universal roar which followed that despairing glance. Then bursting out with: "It's that fiend! – that demon incarnate! – that little Jezebel has done this," he rushed from the room in search of her.

Gipsy, attracted by the laughter, had ventured cautiously to descend the stairs. The squire perceived her, as like a flash she turned to fly. With one galvanic bound he sprang up the stairs, seized her by the shoulder, shouting:

"By Heaven! I'll pay you for this when they go!"

Then opening an adjoining door, he thrust her in, turned the key, put it in his pocket, and rushed out of the house into the yard, where, by the friendly aid of soap and hot water, and some hard scrubbing, he managed to make himself once more look like a Christian.

Then, returning to his guests – who by this time had laughed themselves into such a state that they could laugh no longer – he dispersed the servants with sundry kicks and cuffs, and proceeded to explain, as well as he was able, how it came about. Politeness forced the party to make every effort to maintain their gravity, but more than once, while seated in solemn conclave round the dinner-table, the recollection of the old man's ludicrous appearance would prove too much for flesh and blood – and, leaning back, they would laugh until the tears stood in their eyes. Their example proving contagious, the whole party would join in, to the great mortification of the squire – who inwardly vowed that Gipsy should pay dearly for every additional laugh.

But for the squire to reckon without Gipsy was rather a hazardous experiment. Seldom did that young lady find herself in a position from which her genius would not extricate her – as the squire found to his cost in the present instance.