Читать книгу Sharing Her Crime - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 20

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"A little, wild-eyed, tawny child,

A fairy sprite, untamed and wild,

Like to no one save herself,

A laughing, mocking, gipsy elf."

ear after year glides away, and we wonder vaguely that they can have passed. On our way to the grave we may meet many troubles, but time obliterates them all, and we learn to laugh and talk as merrily again as though the grass was not growing between our face and one we could never love enough. But such is life.

Ten years have passed away at St. Mark's since the close of our last chapter; ten years of dull, tedious monotony. The terrible sight that had met Lizzie Oranmore's eyes that morning, was the dead form of her young husband. He had been riding along at his usual reckless, headlong pace, and had been thrown from his horse and killed.

Under the greensward in the village church-yard, they laid his world-weary form to rest, with only the name inscribed on the cold, white marble to tell he had ever existed. And no one dreamed of the youthful romance that had darkened all the life of Barry Oranmore. Lying on the still heart, that had once beat so tumultuously, they found the miniature of a fair young face and a long tress of sunny hair. Wondering silently to whom they belonged, good Mrs. Gower laid them aside, little dreaming of what they were one day to discover.

Lizzie, with her usual impulsiveness, wept and sobbed for a time inconsolably. But it was not in her shallow, thoughtless nature to grieve long for any one; and ere a year had passed, she laughed as gayly and sang as merrily as ever.

Sometimes, it may be, when her child—her boy—would look up in her face with the large dark eyes of him who had once stolen her girlish heart away, tears for a moment would weigh down her golden eyelashes; but the next instant the passing memory was forgotten, and her laugh again rang out merry and clear.

And so the ten years had passed, and no change had taken place at Sunset Hall save that it was far from being the quiet place it had been formerly.

Has the reader forgotten Aurora, the little foundling of yelling notoriety? If so, it is no fault of hers, for that shrill-voiced young lady never allowed herself to be pushed aside to make room for any one. Those ten years at least made a change in her.

See her now, as she stands with her dog by her side, for a moment, to rest, in the quaint old porch fronting Sunset Hill. She has been romping with Lion this morning, and now, panting and breathless, she pauses for an instant to prepare for a fresh race. There she stands! A little, slight, wiry, agile figure, a little thin, dark, but bright and sparkling face, with small, irregular features, never for a moment at rest. With a shower of short, crisp, dark curls streaming in the breeze, every shining ring dancing with life, and fire, and mirth, and mischief. And with such eyes, looking in her face you forgot every other feature gazing in those "bonny wells of brown," that seemed fairly scintillating wickedness. How they did dance, and flash, and sparkle, with youth, and glee, and irrepressible fun—albeit the darker flame that now and then leaped from their shining depths bespoke a wild, fierce spirit, untamed and daring, slumbering in her heart, quiet and unaroused as yet, but which would one day burst forth, scathing, blighting all on whom it fell.

And such is Aurora Gower. A wild, dark, elfish changeling, not at all pretty, but the most bewitching sprite withal, that ever kept a household in confusion. Continually getting into scrapes and making mischief, and doing deeds that would have been unpardonable in any one else, Aurora, in some mysterious way of her own, escaped censure, and the most extravagant actions were passed over with the remark, that it was "just like her—just what you might expect from a gipsy." Owing to her dark skin and wild habits, "Gipsy" was the name by which Mrs. Gower's protegee was universally known. With every one she was a favorite, for though always saucy, often impertinent, and invariably provoking, it was impossible to be angry with a little fairy of a creature whom they could almost hold up between their finger and thumb.

As for the burly old squire, he could as soon think of getting along without his brandy as without Gipsy. For though they continually quarreled, he abusing her unmercifully, and she retorting impudently, yet, when Gipsy at the end would flounce out in a towering passion, she was sure a few hours after to find a peace-offering from the old man, in the shape of a costly gift, lying on her table. After some coaxing she would consent to forgive him, and Squire Erliston and his little ward would smoke the calumet of peace (figuratively speaking); but, alas! for the short-lived truce—ere another hour the war of words would be raging "fast and furious" once more.

Good Mrs. Gower zealously strove to impress on the wayward elf a becoming respect for the head of the household; and sometimes, in a fit of penitence, Aurora would promise "not to give Guardy any more bile," but being by nature woefully deficient in the bump of reverence, the promise had never been kept; and at last the worthy housekeeper gave up the task in despair.

And so Aurora was left pretty much to follow her "own sweet will," and no one need wonder that she grew up the maddest, merriest elf that ever danced in the moonlight. At the age of eleven she could ride with the best horseman for miles around, hunt like a practiced sportsman, bring down a bird on the wing with her unerring bullet, and manage a boat with the smartest fisherman in St. Marks. Needle-work, dolls, and other amusements suitable for her age, she regarded with the utmost contempt, and with her curls streaming behind her, her hat swinging in her hand, she might be seen flying about the village from morning till night, always running, for she was too quick and impetuous to walk. In the stormiest weather, when the winds were highest and the sea roughest, she would leap into one of the fishermen's boats, and unheeding storm and danger, go out with them, in spite of commands and entreaties to the contrary, until danger and daring became with her second nature. But while Aurora has been standing for her picture the rest of the family have assembled in the breakfast-parlor of Mount Sunset Hall. Languidly stretched on a sofa lay Lizzie Oranmore. Those ten years have made no change in her; just the same rose-leaf complexion, the same round, little graceful figure, the same coquettish airs and graces as when we saw her last. She might readily have been taken for the elder sister of her son, Louis, who stood by the window sketching the view before him.

There was a striking resemblance between Louis and his dead father; the same clear, olive complexion, the same sable locks and bold black eyes, the same scornful, curving upper lip, and the same hot, rash, impetuous nature. But with all his fiery impetuosity he was candid, open and generous, the soul of honor and frankness, but with a nature which, according as it was trained, must be powerful for good or evil.

Sitting propped up in an easy-chair, with his gouty leg, swathed in flannel, stretched on two chairs, was the squire, looking in no very sweet frame of mind. The morning paper, yet damp from the press, lay before him; but the squire's attention would wander from it every moment to the door.

"Where's that little wretch this morning?" broke out the squire, at last, throwing down his paper impatiently.

"I really can't say," replied Lizzie, opening her eyes languidly. "I saw her racing over the hills this morning, with those dreadful dogs of hers. I expect she will be back soon."

"And we must wait for her ladyship!" growled the squire. "I'll cane her within an inch of her life if she doesn't learn to behave herself. 'Spare the child and spoil the rod,' as Solomon says."

"Here she comes!" exclaimed Louis, looking up. "Speak of Satan and he'll appear."

"Satan! She's no Satan, I'd have you know, you young jackanapes!" said the squire, angrily, for though always abusing the "little vixen," Aurora, himself, he would suffer no one else to do it.

"Look, look how she dashes along!" exclaimed Louis, with kindling eyes, unheeding the reproof. "There! she has leaped her pony over the gate, and now she is standing up in her saddle; and—bravo! well done, Gipsy! She has actually sprung over black Jupe's head in a flying leap."

While he spoke Gipsy came running up the lawn toward the house, singing, in a high, shrill voice, as she ran: