Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

Gipsy's first sensation at finding herself for the first time really a prisoner was one of intense mortification, followed by indignation; and her thoughts ran somewhat after the following fashion:

"The mean old thing! – to lock me up here just because I applied a little mustard outside instead of inside! Never mind; if I don't fix him for it, it'll be a wonder. So you'll pay me for this, will you, Guardy? Ah! but you ain't sure of me yet, you see. If I don't outwit you yet, my name's not Gipsy Roarer Gower! Now, Gipsy, my dear, set your wits to work, and get yourself out of this black hole of a prison."

Going to the window, she looked out. The sight would have appalled any one else; but it did not intimidate Gipsy. The room she was in was on the third story, at a dizzy height from the ground. She looked around for a rope to descend; but none did the room contain. What was she to do? Gipsy raised herself on one toe to consider.

Suddenly her eye fell on a new suit of broadcloth her guardian had brought home only the day before. She did not hesitate an instant.

To her great delight she found a pair of scissors in her pocket; and, taking the coat and unmentionables from the wall where they hung, she sat down and diligently fell to work cutting them into long strips. Fifteen minutes passed, and nothing remained of Guardy's new clothes but a long black knotted string – which, to her great delight, she found would reach easily to the ground.

Fastening it to the window-sill securely, she began to descend, and in ten minutes she stood once more on terra firma.

Going to the stables, she saddled Mignonne and led him to the front gate, where she left him standing. Then, with unheard-of audacity, she entered the hall, opened the dining-room door, and thrusting in her wicked little head, she exclaimed exultingly:

"I say, Guardy, you can 'pay' me any time at your leisure, and I'll give you a receipt in full."

Then, I am sorry to say, making a hideous grimace, she turned to fly; but the squire jumped from his seat – overturning the bishop and Mrs. Senator Long in his violent haste – and shouting, "Stop her! stop her!" rushed after her from the room.

But he was too late, and she leaped upon Mignonne's back and was off. Waving her hat in the air in a defiant "hurra!" she dashed down the road and disappeared.

Amazement and rage were struggling in the breast of the squire. Doubting whether it was all a delusion, he rushed up stairs to the room. The door was still fast; and, burning with impatience, he opened it. And there he found the window wide open, and his new suit converted into a rope, which still dangled, as if in exultation from the window. And the mystery was solved.

What the squire said and did there, it is useless to say. The reader knows his remarks were anything but edifying; and even the august presence of the overturned bishop could not prevent him from hurling a torrent of invectives against the unfortunate Gipsy. Never had Squire Erliston been so angry in his life. Inwardly vowing that she should repent what she had done, the squire "bided his time" – little dreaming how bitterly he was destined to repent that vow.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE MOONLIGHT FLITTING

"Oh, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd;She was a vixen when she went to school,And though she is but little, she is fierce."

The moonlight was falling brightly on the lawn, and shimmering like silver sheen on the leaves of the horse-chestnuts, as Gipsy rode home. The company had just dispersed, and the squire was about to retire, when the clatter of horse's hoofs on the graveled path made him start up and hasten out to the porch. And there he beheld the audacious Gipsy riding fearlessly toward him, shouting at the top of her lungs some wild chorus, of which he only caught the words:

"You must place in my coffin a bottle of red,And say a good fellow is gone."

"If I don't pay her off before I sleep to-night!" muttered the squire, between his clenched teeth. "I'll put an end to her pranks, or know for why."

Gipsy leaped lightly from her horse, and resigning him to Jupiter, ran up the steps, and encountered the purple face and blazing eyes of her angry guardian.

"Good-evening, Guardy!" was her salute. "Nice night!"

"Stop!" said the squire, catching her by the arm as she was about to run past – "stop! I've an account to settle with you, my lady!"

"Oh, any time at your convenience, Squire Erliston; I'll not be hard on you."

"Silence, Miss Impertinence! You have the impudence of Satan to face me after what you have done!"

"Now, Guardy, don't be unreasonable, but look at the matter in its proper light. All fashionable people paint."

"Silence!" exclaimed the squire, in a voice hoarse with rage. "Silence! before I brain you, you little villain! You have made me the laughing-stock of the country for miles around. I can never dare to show my face after what has occurred, without being jeered and mocked at. And all through you – the creature of my bounty – the miserable little wretch who would have been a common street-beggar if I had not clothed, and fed, and educated you! – through you, you brazen-faced, good-for-nothing little pauper, whom I would have kicked out long ago to the workhouse where you belong, if I had not feared the opinion of the world. Begone from my sight, before I am tempted to brain you!"

His face was perfectly livid with the storm of passion into which he had wrought himself. As he ceased, he raised his hand and brutally struck her a blow that sent her reeling across the room.

Then all the demon in her fiery nature was aroused. With the shriek of a wounded panther, she leaped toward him, with clenched hands, blazing eyes, hard-ground teeth, ghastly face, convulsed brow, and eyes that fairly scintillated sparks of fire. She looked a perfect little fiend, as she glared upon him, quivering in every nerve with frenzied passion.

The old sinner drew back appalled, frightened into calmness by that dark, fierce face. For a moment he expected she would spring at his throat like a tigress and strangle him. But, with a long, wild cry, she clasped her hands above her head, and fled swiftly up-stairs, disappearing like some elfin sprite in the darkness beyond.

"Good Lord!" muttered the squire, wiping the drops of terror off his face. "What a perfect little devil! Did ever any one see such a look on a human face before! It's my opinion she's allied to Old Nick, and will carry me off some night in a brimstone of cloud and fire – I mean a fire of cloud and brimstone. Good gracious! I'm palpitating like a hysterical girl. I never got such a fright in my life. I vow it's a danger to go to bed with that desperate little limb in the house. I shouldn't wonder if she set the place on fire about our ears and burned us all in our beds, or cut our throats, or something. She looked wild and crazy enough to do it. Well, I reckon, I'll be more careful how I chastise her for the future, that's certain."

So saying, the squire took his night-lamp and went off to bed, taking the precaution to double lock his door, lest the "little imp" should take it into her head to carry him off bodily during the night.

No such catastrophe occurred, however, and when the squire went down to breakfast, he found everything going on as usual. Lizzie lay on a lounge, immersed in the pages of a novel, and Louis sat by the window busily sketching, as was his custom.

"I say, Lizzie, have you seen anything of Gipsy this morning?" he inquired, as he entered.

"No, papa."

"I'd rather think she rode off before any of us were up this morning," said Louis, raising his head. "Mignonne is not in the stable."

This was nothing unusual, so without waiting for her, the family sat down to breakfast.

But half an hour after, Totty came running in alarm to Mrs. Gower, to say Miss Gipsy's bed had not been slept in all night. This fact was self-evident; and the worthy housekeeper sought out the squire to learn whether Gipsy had returned home the night before.

"Yes, yes, to be sure she did. 'Night brings home all stragglers,' as Solomon says. Why?"

"Because she has not slept in her bed the livelong night."

"No!" shouted the squire, springing from his seat, as if some one had speared him. "Lord bless me! where can she have gone?"

"Ah, Squire Erliston, you do not think anything has happened to the dear child, do you?" said Mrs. Gower, clasping her hands.

"Fiddle-de-dee, woman, of course not. She's gone back to Deep Dale, I'll lay a wager. Oh, here comes young Rivers, now we'll know."

"Archie, my dear," said Mrs. Gower, as that young gentleman entered the room, "did Gipsy go back to Deep Dale last night?"

"Go back! Why, of course she didn't."

"Oh, Squire Erliston, you hear that. Oh, where can that crazy creature have gone?" exclaimed Mrs. Gower, twisting her fingers in distress.

"Why, what's wrong? Where is Gipsy?" asked Archie, in surprise.

"Oh, I don't know. She came home late last night, and must have gone away somewhere, for she never went to bed at all. Oh, I am sure she has been killed, or drowned, or shot, or something! I always knew it would happen," and Mrs. Gower fairly began to cry.

"Knew what would happen?" said Archie, perplexed and alarmed.

"Something or other. I always said it; and now my words have come true," replied Mrs. Gower sobbing.

"Mrs. Gower, ma'am, allow me to tell you, you're a fool!" broke out the squire. "Most likely she didn't feel sleepy, and rode off before you were out of your bed this morning, just like the young minx. Ring the bell, and we'll see what time she started."

Archie obeyed, and Totty made her appearance.

"Tott," said the master, "be off with you, and send Jupiter here immediately."

Totty ducked her wooly head by way of reply, as she ran off, and presently Jupiter made his appearance in evident trouble.

"Jupe, you black rascal, what time did Gipsy ride off this morning?" asked the squire.

"Please, mas'r, it warn't dis mornin' she rid off," said Jupiter, holding the door ajar, in order that he might retreat if his master grew violent.

"What do you mean, sir?" roared his master, in rising terror.

"'Deed, mas'r, I couldn't stop the young wixen – de young lady, I mean – she don't mind me, no how, she don't."

"Nor anybody else, for that matter," groaned the squire, inwardly.

"You see, mas'r, arter she come home, I tuk Minnon inter de stable, and 'gan rubbin' him down, 'caze he was all in a foam she done rid him so hard. Well, 'bout half an hour arter, as I was goin' to bed, I hears a noise in de yard, an' when I looks out, dar was Miss Gipsy takin' de horse out again. 'Deed she was, mas'r, an' 'fore I could get out she war gone – 'twan't no fault of mine."

"Oh, Gipsy! Gipsy!" shouted the squire, jumping to his legs and stamping up and down the floor in an agony of remorse and sorrow. "And I've driven you from home, old monster that I am! I'm a brute! an alligator! a crocodile! a wretched old wretch! a miserable, forsaken old sinner! and I'll knock down any man that dare say to the contrary! Oh, Gipsy, my dear little plague! where are you now? My darling little wild eaglet! friendless in the wide world!" Here catching sight of Jupiter still standing in the doorway, he rushed upon him and shook him until the unfortunate darkey's jaws chattered like a pair of castanets. "As for you, you black rascal! I have a good mind to break every bone in your worthless skin. Why didn't you wake me up, sir, when you saw her going, eh? Answer me that!"

"Mas'r – ma – ma – mas'r," stuttered poor Jupiter, half strangled, "'deed de Lord knows I was 'fraid to 'sturb ye. Ma – ma – ma – mas'r – "

"Silence, sir! Up with you and mount – let every man, woman, and child in the place be off in search of her. And Mrs. Gower, ma'am, do you stop snuffling there. 'No use crying for spilled milk,' as Solomon says. We'll have her home and soundly thrashed before night, or my name's not Magnus Theodoric Erliston. Ha! there! Louis! Archie! the rest of you, mount and off! And Mrs. Gower, ma'am, do you run out and saddle my horse, and bring him round while I draw on my boots."

"Squire Erliston," sobbed the poor old lady, "you know very well I can't saddle your horse. Oh, Gipsy! Gipsy!" she added, with a fresh burst of tears.

"Well, fly and tell some of the rest, then. Women are such worthless creatures – good for nothing but crying. There they go, with Louis and young Rivers at their head, to scour the country. 'In the days when we went gipsying,' as Solomon says. I do believe that little minx will be the death of me yet – I know she will! I'm losing flesh; I'm losing temper; I'm losing cash! I'm losing rest, and losing patience every day. She'll bring my gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, as Solomon says, only I happen to wear a wig, Ah! there's my horse. Now for it! Gipsy Gower, you little torment, you, won't I tell you a piece of my mind when I catch you!"

But the squire was destined not to catch her; for, though they continued the search for the lost one until night, no trace of her could be found. All that could be learned of her was from an innkeeper in a neighboring town, some twenty miles distant. He said a young girl answering the description given of Gipsy had arrived there about daylight, and, after taking a hasty breakfast, had left her horse – which was utterly exhausted by the pace with which she had ridden him – and started in the mail coach for the city.

Mignonne was led home, and as it was too late to go farther that day the tired horsemen returned, silent and dispirited, homeward. The next day the search was renewed, and the driver of the mail-coach questioned concerning the little fugitive. He could throw but little light on the subject; she accompanied him as far as the city, where she paid her fare and left him. And that was all he knew.

Placards were posted up, and rewards offered; the police were put upon her track; but all in vain. And at last all hope was given up, and the lost child was resigned to her fate.

One day, about three weeks after her flight, the postman brought a letter for Mrs. Gower. One glance at the superscription, and with a cry of joy she tore it open, for it was in the light, careless hand of Gipsy. It ran as follows:

"My Dear, Darling Aunty: – I suppose you have had great times up at Sunset Hall since I made a moonlight flitting of it. I wish I had been there to see the fun. I suppose Guardy stamped and roared, and blew up Jupiter, and blessed me– after his old style. Well, you know, aunty, I just couldn't help it. Guardy was getting so unbearable there was no standing him, and so I'm going to take Gipsy Gower under my own especial patronage, and make a good girl of her. Don't be angry, now, aunty, because I'll take precious good care of myself – see if I don't. Tell Guardy not to make a fuss, for fear it might bring on the gout, and tell him not to keep searching for me, for if he hunts till he's black in the face he won't find me. Remember me to Aunt Liz, and Louis, and Celeste, and – and Archie. Tell Archie not to fall in love with anybody else; if he does he may look out for a squall from your own little Gipsy."

This characteristic letter, instead of comforting the family, plunged them into still deeper trouble on her account. Mrs. Gower wept for her darling unceasingly, and would not be comforted; Lizzie sighed and yawned, and lay on her lounge from morning till night, looking drearier than ever; and the servants went in silence and sadness about their daily business, heaving a sigh and shedding a tear over every memento that recalled poor Gipsy. Now that she was gone they found how dearly they loved her, in spite of all the scrapes and troubles she had ever cost them.

A dull, heavy, stagnant silence hung over the mansion from morning till night. There was no more banging of doors, and flying in and out, and up and down stairs, and scolding, and shouting, and singing all in one burst, now. The squire was blue-molding – fairly "running to seed," as he mournfully expressed it – for want of his little torment.

No one missed the merry little elf more than the lusty old squire, who sighed like a furnace, and sat undisturbed in his own arm-chair from one week's end to the other. Sometimes Louis would bring over Celeste, who had nearly wept her gentle eyes out for the loss of her friend, to comfort him, and the fair, loving little creature would nestle on a stool at his feet and lay her golden head in his lap, and go to sleep. And the squire would caress her fair, silken curls with his great, rough hands, and pat her white, dimpling shoulders, and turn away with a half groan; for she was not Gipsy!

As for poor Archie, he took to wandering in the woods and shooting unoffending birds and rabbits, because it was Gipsy's favorite sport, and looked as doleful as though he had lost every friend in the world.

"Fall in love with any one else," indeed! Master Archie scorned the idea, and began to have sundry visions of joining the monks of La Trappe as soon as he grew old enough. This and his other threats of going to sea, of enlisting, of killing somebody, by way of relieving his spirits, kept poor Celeste trembling with fear for him from morning till night. And in her own gentle way she would put her arms round his neck and cry on his shoulder, and beg of him not to say such naughty things, for that Gipsy would come back yet – she knew that she would.

But Minnette, who didn't care a straw whether Gipsy ever came back or not, would laugh her short, deriding laugh, and advise him to become a Sister of Charity at once. And Celeste said she would be one when she grew up, and then she would be always near to comfort him. And Minnette's taunts always sent poor Archie off to the woods in a more heart-broken state of mind than ever before.

CHAPTER XV.

THE "STAR OF THE VALLEY."

– "Face and figure of a child,Though too calm, you think, and tender,For the childhood you would lend her." – Browning.

The winter was now drawing on. The short, bleak November days had come, with their chill winds and frosty mornings. Miss Hagar looked at the slight, delicate form and pale little face of her protegee, and began to talk of keeping her at home, instead of sending her to school during the winter months.

Celeste listened, and never dreamed of opposing her wishes, but stole away by herself, and shed the first selfish tears that had ever fallen from her eyes in her life. It was so pleasant in school, among so many happy young faces, and with the holy, gentle-voiced Sisters of Charity, and so unspeakably lonesome at home, with nothing to do but look out of the window at gray hills and leafless trees, and listen to the dreary sighing of the wind. Therefore Celeste grieved in silence, and strove to keep back the tears when in Miss Hagar's presence, lest she should think her an ungrateful, dissatisfied little girl.

One morning, however, as Miss Hagar entered the deserted parlor, she found Celeste sitting in the chimney-corner, her face hidden in her hands, sobbing gently to herself. A little surprised at this, for the child seemed always smiling and happy before her, Miss Hagar took her on her knee, and asked what was the matter.

"Nothing," replied Celeste, though her cheek glowed crimson red, as she felt she was not speaking the truth.

"People don't cry for nothing, child!" said the aged spinster, severely. "What's the matter?"

"Please, Miss Hagar, I'm so naughty, but – but – I don't want to leave school."

"Don't want to leave school? Why, child, you'd freeze to death going to school in the winter."

"But Minnette goes," pleaded Celeste.

"Minnette's not like you, little lily. She's strong and hardy, and doesn't mind the cold; it only brings living roses to her cheeks; but you, little whiff of down that you are, you'd blow away with the first winter breeze."

Celeste had no reply to make to this. She only hung down her head, and tried very hard to swallow a choking sensation in her throat.

At this moment Archie burst in, in his usual boisterous manner, all aglow with snow-balling Louis. Master Rivers seemed in very good condition, notwithstanding the loss of Gipsy; though I rather think he would have been induced to knock any one down who would tell him he had forgotten her.

"What! in trouble again, little sis? Who's been bothering you now? Just give me a hint, and I'll invite them not to do it again."

"Why, the little simpleton is crying because I won't let her freeze herself to death going to school all winter!" said Miss Hagar.

"Oh, that's it – is it? Dry up your tears, then, Birdie; there's 'balm in Gilead' for you. Yesterday, that good-natured old savage, Squire Erliston, hearing me tell Louis that Celeste could not go to school owing to the distance, immediately insisted that we should all use his family sleigh for the winter. Now, Miss Hagar, see how those radiant smiles chase her tears away. We'll nestle you up in the buffalo robes, and dash off to school with you every morning to the music of the jingling sleigh-bells. Eh, puss? won't it be glorious?"

"What's that?" said Minnette, entering suddenly.

"Why, Squire Erliston has given his sleigh up to Pussy here to take her to school, and perhaps we'll take you if you're not cross, though the squire has no particular love for you."

"Thank you for nothing," said Minnette, scornfully; "but I wouldn't go if you did ask me. Before I'd be such a baby!" she added, glancing contemptuously at Celeste.

And Minnette was as good as her word, positively refusing even the stormiest mornings to go in the sleigh. Archie exhausted all his eloquence, and Celeste pleaded tearfully, offering to stay at home and let her take her place; but Minnette answered all their entreaties by a sullen "I won't." Even when Louis, the only living being to whom her high, stubborn will would bend, pleaded with her to come, she only turned away, and said, in a tone very gentle for her:

"No, Louis, don't ask me; I can't go. Why should I? I'm no trembling little coward like Celeste. I love the winter! – yes, twice as well as the summer! The summer is too still, and warm, and serene for me! But the winter, with its maddening winds and howling storms, and white, frosty ground and piercing cold breeze, sends the blood bounding like lightning through every vein in my body, until I fly along, scarcely touching the ground beneath me! Louis, walking alone through the drifted snow, I feel no cold; but in your warm sleigh beside her, my heart would feel like ice!"

"Strange, wild girl that you are! Why do you dislike Celeste so much?"

"I don't know. I never liked any one in my life – at least not more than one. Do you like her?" she said, lifting her eyes, glancing with dusky fire, to his face.

"Like her!" he exclaimed, shaking back his short, black curls, while his full, dark eye kindled – "like that lovely little creature! that gentle little dove! that sweet little fairy! beautiful as an angel! radiant as a poet's dream! bewitching as an Eastern houri! Like her! Oh, Minnette!"

She paused for a moment, and fixed her gleaming eyes on the bright, handsome face, sparkling with boyish enthusiasm; then, without a word, turned away, and fled from his sight.

And from that moment her hatred of Celeste redoubled tenfold in its intensity. Every opportunity of wounding and insulting the sensitive heart of the gentle child was seized; but every insult was borne with patience – every taunt and sarcasm met with meek silence, that only exasperated her merciless tormentor more and more. Sometimes Celeste would feel rising in her bosom a feeling of dislike and indignation toward her persecutor; and then, filled with remorse, she would kneel in the chapel and meekly pray for a better spirit, and always rise strengthened and hopeful, to encounter her arch-enemy, with her taunting words and deriding black eyes.

One last incident, displaying forcibly their different dispositions, and I have done with the children, Minnette and Celeste, forever.

The Sisters had purchased a beautiful new statue of the Madonna, and placed it in the refectory until it could be properly fixed in the chapel. The children were repeatedly forbidden to enter the refectory while it was there, lest it should accidentally be broken.