Sharing Her Crime Part 44

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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sented; 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 pa.s.sed on, learned to love her with a strange, selfish, absorbing pa.s.sion; 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 b.a.l.l.s, 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 c.u.mber 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 wors.h.i.+p becomes extinct during my absence, just send for me, and I'll shed a few tears, and everything will go off in fas.h.i.+onable 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 pa.s.sed 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.sion, 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 n.o.ble 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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?"