Sharing Her Crime Part 43

"Be it so! we part forever-- Let the past as nothing be; Had I only loved thee, never Hadst thou been thus dear to me.

"More than woman thou wast to me-- Not as man I looked on thee; Why, like woman, then, undo me?

Why heap man's worst curse on me?"--BYRON.

It was the evening of Gipsy's wedding-day--a wet, chilly, disagreeable evening, giving promise of a stormy, tempestuous night--fit weather for such a bridal!

Lights were already gleaming in the cottages of the villagers, and the large parlor of the "Inn of St. Mark's" was crowded--every one discussing the surprising wedding up at the Hall, and wondering what Miss Gipsy would do next--when, as James says, "a solitary horseman might have been seen," riding at a break-neck pace toward Deep Dale. The house looked dreary, dark, and dismal--unlighted save by the glare from one window. Unheeding this, the "solitary horseman" alighted, and giving his horse to the care of the servant, ran up the stairs and unceremoniously burst into the parlor, where Minnette Wiseman sat reading alone. All her father's entreaties and commands to be present at his wedding were unheeded. She had heard the news of his approaching marriage with the utmost coolness--a stare of surprise from her bright black eyes being the only outward emotion it caused.

"Why should I go to see you married?" was her impatient reply to his stern commands. "I care nothing for Gipsy Gower, nor she for me. You can be married just as well without me. I won't go!"

Therefore she sat quietly reading at home while the nuptial revelry was at its height in Sunset Hall, and looked up, with an exclamation of surprise, to see our traveler standing before her.

"Archie! what in the world brought _you_ here?" she exclaimed, rising, and placing a chair for him before the fire.

"Rail-cars part of the way, steamer next, and, finally, my horse."

"Don't be absurd. Why have you come to Saint Mark's? No one expected you here these three months."

"Know it, coz. But I've found out I am the luckiest dog in creation, and ran down here to tell you and _another_ particular friend I have. I suppose you have heard of Uncle John Rivers, my father's brother. Yes!

Well, about four months ago he returned from Europe, with one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and the consumption. Though he never had the honor of my acquaintance, he knew there existed so distinguished an individual, and accordingly left the whole of his property to me; and a few weeks after, gave up the ghost. You see, therefore, Minnette, I'm a rich man. I've pitched law to its patron saint, the--hem!--and started off down here post-haste to marry a certain little girl in these diggin's, and take her with me to see the sights in Europe."

"My dear cousin, I congratulate you. I presume Miss Pearl is to be the young lady of your choice."

"No; Celeste is too much of an angel for such a hot-headed scamp as I am. I mean another little girl, whom I've long had a _penchant_ for. But where's your father?"

Minnette laughed sarcastically.

"Getting married, I presume. This night my worthy parent follows the Scriptural injunction, and takes unto himself a wife."

"Nonsense, Minnette!--you jest."

"Do I?" said Minnette, quietly. "I thought you knew me well enough now, Archie, to know I never jest."

"But, Minnette, it is absurd. Dr. Wiseman married in his old age. Why, it's a capital joke." And Archie laughed uproariously. "Who is the fortunate lady that is to be your mamma and my respected aunt?"

"Why, no other than that little savage, Gipsy Gower."

Had a spasm been suddenly thrust into Archie's heart, he could not have leaped more convulsively from his seat. Even the undaunted Minnette drew back in alarm.

"What did you say?" he exclaimed, grasping her arm, unconsciously, with a grip of iron. "To whom is he to be married?"

"To Aurora Gower. What do you mean, sir? Let go my arm."

He dropped it, staggered to a chair, dropped his head in his hands, and sat like one suddenly struck by death.

"Archie, what _is_ the matter?" said Minnette, looking at him in wonder.

"Was Gipsy the one you came here to marry?"

"Minnette! Minnette! it cannot be true!" he exclaimed, springing to his feet, without heeding her question. "It is absurd--monstrous-- _impossible_! My wild, free, daring Gipsy would never consent to marry a man she abhorred. For Heaven's sake, Minnette, only say you have been jesting!"

"I have spoken the truth," she answered, coldly. "My father this morning married Aurora Gower!"

"Great heavens! I shall go mad! What in the name of all the saints tempted her to commit such an act?"

"I know not. Most probably it is one of her strange freaks--or, perhaps, she thinks papa rich, and married him for his money. At all events, married him she has; her reasons for doing so I neither know nor care for."

"Heaven of heavens! Could Gipsy--she whom I always thought the pure, warm-hearted child of nature--commit so base an act? It cannot be! I will _never_ believe it! By some infernal plot she has been entrapped into this unnatural marriage, and dearly shall those who have forced her rue it!" exclaimed Archie, treading up and down the room like one distracted.

"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 pa.s.s; 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 G.o.d'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!"