Читать книгу Sharing Her Crime: A Novel - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 8

Year 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:

"Stop that, stop that, you vixen! Stop it, I tell you, or I'll hang you up!" said the squire, angrily. "Where do you learn those vulgar doggerels?"

"Make 'em up, Guardy – every one of 'em. Ain't I a genius?"

"I don't believe it, you scapegrace."

"No wonder you don't, seeing there never was a genius in the family before; but 'better late than never,' you know."

"None of your impertinence, miss. Give an account of yourself, if you please. Where were you this morning? Answer me that!"

"Nowhere, sir."

"Don't tell stories, you little sinner. Where is nowhere?"

"Over to Doctor Spider's."

"Gipsy, my dear, why will you persist in calling Doctor Wiseman nicknames?" remonstrated Lizzie.

"Why, Aunt Liz, because he's just like a spider, for all the world – all legs," flippantly replied Gipsy.

"And what business had you there, monkey? Didn't I tell you not to go? I thought I told you never to go there!" said the squire, in rising wrath.

"Know it, Guardy, and that's just the reason I went."

"Because I forbade you, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"You – you – you disobedient little hussy, you! Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Ashamed! – what of? I haven't got the gout in my leg."

"Gipsy, you dreadful child, hush!" said Lizzie, in alarm.

"Oh, let her go on! She's just as you taught her, madam. And as to you, Miss Gipsy, or Aurora, or whatever your name is, let me tell you, the gout is nothing to be ashamed of. It runs in the most respectable families, miss."

"Lord, Guardy! What a pity I can't have it, too, and help to keep up the respectability of the family!"

Louis turned to the window, and struggled violently with a laugh, which he endeavored to change into a cough, and the laugh and cough meeting, produced a choking sensation. This sent Gipsy to his aid, who, after administering sundry thumps on his back with her little closed fists, restored him to composure, and the squire returned to the charge.

"And now, to 'return to our mutton,' as Solomon says; or – hold on a minute – was it Solomon who said that?"

The squire paused, and placed his finger reflectively on the point of his nose, in deep thought; but being unable to decide, he looked up, and went on:

"Yes, miss, as I was saying, what took you over to Deep Dale so early this morning? Tell me that."

"Well, if I must, I must, I s'pose – so here goes."

"Hallo, Gipsy!" interrupted Louis. "Take care – you're making poetry."

"No, sir! I scorn the accusation!" said Gipsy, drawing herself up. "But, Guardy, since I must tell you, I went over to see – ahem! – Archie!"

"You did!" grunted Guardy. "Humph! humph! humph!"

"Don't take it so much to heart, Guardy. No use grieving – 'specially as the grief might settle in your poor afflicted leg – limb, I mean."

"And may I ask, young lady, what you could possibly want with him?" said the squire, sternly.

"Oh, fifty things! He's my beau, you know."

"Your beau! —your beau! – your BEAU! My conscience!"

"Yes, sir, we're engaged."

"You are? 'Oh, Jupiter,' as Solomon says. Pray, madam (for such I presume you consider yourself), when will you be twelve years old?"

"Oh, as soon as I can. I don't want to be an old maid."

"So it seems, you confounded little Will-o'-the-wisp. And will you be good enough to inform us how this precious engagement came about?" said the squire, with a savage frown.

"With pleasure, sir. You see, we went out to gather grapes in the wood one day, and we had a splendiferous time. And says I, 'Archie, ain't this nice?' – and says he 'Yes' – and says I, 'Wouldn't it be nice if we'd get married?' – and says he, 'Yes' – and says I, 'Will you have me, though?' – and says he, 'Yes' – and says I – "

"'Ain't we a precious pair of fools?' and says he, 'Yes,'" interrupted the squire, mimicking her. "Oh, you're a nice gal – you're a pretty young lady!"

"Yes, ain't I, now? You and I are of one opinion there, exactly. Ain't you proud of me?"

"Proud of you, you barefaced little wretch! I'd like to twist your neck for you!" thundered the squire.

"Better not, Guardy; you'd be hung for man-slaughter if you did, you know."

"You don't call yourself a man, I hope!" said Louis.

"Well, if I don't, I'm a girl – which is a thousand times nicer. And speaking of girls, reminds me that Miss Hagar's got the dearest, darlingest, beautifulest little girl you ever set your eyes on."

"Miss Hagar?" they all exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes, to be sure. Law! you needn't look so astonished; this is a free country. And why can't Miss Hagar have a little girl, if she wants to, as well as anybody else, I'd like to know?" exclaimed Gipsy, rather indignantly.

"To be sure," said Louis, who took the same view of the case as Gipsy.

"Where did she get it? – whose little girl is it?" inquired Lizzie, slightly roused from her languor by the news.

"Don't know, I'm sure; nobody don't. She was off somewhere poking round all day yesterday, and came home at night with this little girl. Oh, Louis, she's such a dear little thing!"

"Is she?" said Louis, absently.

"Yes, indeed – with a face like double-refined moonlight, and long, yellow hair, and blue eyes, and pink dress, and cheeks to match. She's twice as pretty as Minette; and Miss Hagar's going to keep her, and teach her to tell fortunes, I expect."

"I wonder Dr. Wiseman allows Miss Hagar to fill the house with little beggars," said Lizzie.

"Oh, Spider's got nothing to do with it. Miss Hagar has money of her own, and can keep her if she likes. Pity if she'd have to ask permission of that 'thing of legs and arms,' everything she wants to do."

"Gipsy, my dear, you really must not speak so of Dr. Wiseman: it's positively shocking," said the highly-scandalized Mrs. Oranmore.

"Well, I don't care; he is a 'thing of legs and arms.' There, now!"

"What's the little girl's name, Gipsy?" inquired Louis.

"Celeste– isn't it pretty? And she – oh, she's a darling, and no mistake. Wouldn't I marry her if I was a man – maybe I wouldn't."

"What's her other name?"

"Got none – at least she said so; and, as I didn't like to tell her she told a story, I asked Miss Hagar, and she told me to mind my own business; yes, she actually did. Nobody minds how they talk to me. People haven't a bit of respect for me; and I have to put up with sass from every one. I won't stand it much longer, either. There!"

"No, I wouldn't advise you to," said Louis. "Better sit down; no use in standing it."

"Wiseman's a fool if he lets that crazy tramp, his sister, support beggars in his house," exclaimed the squire, in a threatening tone. "Lunatics like her should not be allowed to go at large. He has no business to permit it."

"I'd like to see him trying to stop it," said Gipsy. "I'd be in his wool."

"You!" said the squire, contemptuously. "What could a little Tom Thumb in petticoats, like you, do?"

"Look here, now, Guardy, don't call a lady names. When you speak of Tom Thumb, you know, it's getting personal. What could I do? Why, I'd set his house on fire some night about his ears, or some day, when out shooting, a bullet might strike him accidentally on purpose. It takes me to defend injured innocence," said Gipsy, getting up, and squaring-off in an attitude of defiance, as she exclaimed: "Come on, old Wiseman, I'm ready for you!"

"Well, I can't allow you to associate with beggars. You must never go to Deep Dale again. I can't countenance his proceedings. If he choose to make a fool of himself, it's no reason why I should do so too."

"None in the world, sir – especially as nature has saved you that trouble."

"You audacious little demon, you! what do you mean?"

"Ahem! I was just observing, sir, that it's time for breakfast," said Gipsy, demurely.

"Humph! humph! well, ring for Mrs. Gower, and hold your tongue."

"Sorry I can't oblige you, Guardy. But how can I hold my tongue and eat?"

"I wish I could find something to take the edge off it; it's altogether too sharp," growled the old man to himself.

Mrs. Gower, fat and good-natured as ever, entered at this moment; and, as they assembled round the table, the squire – who, though he generally got the worst of the argument, would never let Gipsy rest – again resumed the subject.

"Mind, monkey, you're not to go to Deep Dale again; I forbid you – positively forbid you."

"Lor! Guardy, you don't say so!"

"Don't be disrespectful, minx. If I'm your guardian, you shall obey me. You heard me say so before, didn't you?"

"Why, yes, I think so; but, then, you say so many things, a body can't be expected to remember them all. You must be talking, you know; and you might as well be saying that as anything else."

"But I am determined you shall obey me this time. Do you hear? At your peril, minion, dare to go there again!" thundered the squire.

"That very pretty, Guardy, won't you say it over again," replied the tantalizing elf.

"Gipsy! oh, Gipsy, my dear!" chanted the ladies Gower and Oranmore, in a horrified duet.

"You – you – you – little, yellow abomination you! You – you – skinny – "

"Squire Erliston," said Gipsy, drawing herself up with stately dignity, "let me remind you, you are getting to be personal. How would you like it if I called you– you – you red-faced old fright – you – you – you gouty-legged – "

"There! there! that'll do," hastily interrupted the squire, while a universal shout of laughter went round the table at the ludicrous manner in which the little imp mimicked his blustering tone. "There, there! don't say a word about it; but mind, if you dare to go to Dr. Wiseman's, you'll rue it. Mind that."

"All right, sir; let me help you to another roll," said Gipsy, with her sweetest smile, as she passed the plate to the old man, who looked, not only daggers, but bowie-knives at the very least.