CHAPTER XXIV.
MAY AND DECEMBER
"She looked to the river – looked to the hill —
And thought on the spirit's prophecy;
Then broke the silence stern and still:
'Not you, but Fate, has vanquished me.'"
Lay of the Last Minstrel.
"Celeste, Celeste! do not leave me. Oh! all the world has left me, and will you go, too? This heart – this restless, beating heart – will it never stop aching? Oh, Celeste! once I thought I had no heart; but by this dull, aching pain where it should be, I know I must have had one some time. Stay with me, Celeste. You are the only one in the world left for me to love now."
Gipsy – small, fair and fragile, with her little wan face and unnaturally lustrous eyes – lay moaning restlessly on her low couch, like some tempest-tossed soul quivering between life and death. Like an angel of light, by her side knelt Celeste, with her fair, pitying face and her soft blue eyes, from which the tears fell on the small brown fingers that tightly clasped hers.
"Dear Gipsy, I will not leave you; but you know you must get up and dress soon."
"Oh, yes; but not yet. It is so nice to lie here, and have you beside me. I am so tired, Celeste – I have never rested since I made that promise. It seems as if ever since I had been walking and walking on through the dark, unable to stop, with such an aching here."
And she pressed her hand to the poor quivering heart that was fluttering to escape from the heavy chain fate was drawing tighter and tighter around it.
"What can I do for you, Gipsy?" said Celeste, stooping and kissing her pale lips, while two pitying drops fell from her eyes on the poor little face below her.
"Don't cry for me, Celeste. I never wept for myself yet. Sing for me, dear friend, the 'Evening Hymn' we used to sing at the Sisters' school, long ago."
Forcing back her tears, Celeste sang, in a voice low and sweet as liquid music:
"Ave sanctissima!
We lift our souls to thee —
Ora pro nobis,
Bright star of the sea!
Watch us while shadows lie
Far o'er the waters spread;
Hear the heart's lonely sigh —
Thine, too, hath bled!"
Gipsy listened, with her eyes closed, an expression of peace and rest falling on her dark, restless face, until Celeste ceased.
"Oh, Celeste, I always feel so much better and happier when you are with me – not half so much of a heartless imp as at other times," said Gipsy, opening her eyes. "I wish I could go and live with you and Miss Hagar at Valley Cottage, or enter a convent, or anywhere, to be at peace. While you sang I almost fancied myself back again at school, listening to those dear, kind sisters singing that beautiful 'Evening Hymn.'"
She paused, and murmured, dreamily:
"Watch us while shadows lie
Far o'er the waters spread;
Hear the heart's lonely sigh —
Thine, too, hath bled!"
"Dear Gipsy, do not be so sad. Our Heavenly Father, perhaps, has but sent you this trial to purify your heart and make it His own. In the time of youth and happiness we are apt ungratefully to forget the Author of all good gifts, and yield the heart that should be His to idols of clay. But in the days of sorrow and suffering we stretch out our arms to Him; and He, forgetting the past, takes us to his bosom. And, dearest Gipsy, shall we shrink from treading through trials and sufferings in the steps of the sinless Son of God, to that home of rest and peace that He died to gain for us?"
Her beautiful face was transfigured, her eyes radiant, her lips glowing with the fervor of the deep devotion with which she spoke.
"I cannot feel as you do, Celeste," said Gipsy, turning restlessly. "I feel like one without a light, groping my way in the dark – like one who is blind, hastening to my own doom. I cannot look up; I can see into the dark grave, but no farther."
"Light will come yet, dear friend. Every cloud has its silver lining."
"Never for me. But, hark! What is that?"
Celeste arose, and went to the window.
"It is the carriages bringing more people. The parlors below are full. You must rise, and dress for your bridal, Gipsy."
"Would to heaven it were for my burial! I am so tired, Celeste. Must I get up?"
"Yes, dear Gipsy; they are waiting for you. I will dress you myself," said Celeste, as Gipsy, pale, wan, and spirituelle, arose from her couch, her little, slight figure smaller and slighter than ever.
Rapidly moved the nimble fingers of Celeste. The dancing dark locks fell in short, shining curls around the superb little head, making the pale face of the bride look paler still by contrast. Then Celeste went into her wardrobe and brought forth the jewels, the white vail, the orange blossoms, and the rich robes of white brocade, frosted with seed pearls, and laid them on the bed.
"What is that white dress for?" demanded Gipsy, abruptly, looking up from a reverie into which she had fallen.
"For you to wear, of course," replied Celeste, astonished at the question.
"A white dress for me! Ha! ha! ha!" she said, with a wild laugh. "True, I forgot – when the ancients were about to sacrifice a victim, they robed her in white and crowned her with flowers. But I will differ from all other victims, and wear a more suitable color. This shall be my wedding-dress," said Gipsy, leaving the room, and returning with a dress of black lace.
Celeste shrank back from its ominous hue with something like a shudder.
"Oh, not in black! Oh, Gipsy! any other color but black for your wedding. Think how you will shock every one," said Celeste, imploringly.
"Shock them! Why, Celeste, I've shocked them so continually ever since I was a year old, that when I cease to shock them they won't know Gipsy Gower. And that reminds me that after to-day I will be 'Mad Gipsy Gower' no longer, but Mrs. Doctor Nicholas Wiseman. Ha! ha! ha! Wiseman! how appropriate the name will be! Oh! won't I lead him a life —won't I make him wish he had never been born —won't I teach him what it is to drive a girl to desperation? He thinks because I am a little thing he can hold me up with one hand – and, by the way, Celeste, his hands always remind me of a lobster's claw stuck into a pump-handle – that he can do what he pleases with me. We'll see! Hook my dress, Celeste. It's a pity to keep my Adonis waiting, and disappoint all these good people who have come to see the fun."
"Dear Gipsy, do not look and talk so wildly. And pray, take off that black dress, and wear any other color you wish. People will talk so, you know."
"Let 'em talk then, my dear. They'll only say it's one of Gipsy's whims. Besides, it will shock Spider, which is just what I want. He'll get a few more shocks before I have done with him, I rather think. Hook my dress, Celeste."
With a sigh at the elf's perversity, Celeste obeyed; and with a sad face, watched the eccentric little bride shake out the folds of her black robe, and fasten a dark crimson belt around her waist.
"Now, if I had a few poppies or marigolds to fasten in my hair, I'd look bewitching; as I haven't, these must do." And with a high, ringing laugh, she twined a dark, purplish passion-flower amid her shining curls. "Now for my rouge. I must look blooming, you know – happy brides always should. Then it will save me the trouble of blushing, which is something I never was guilty of in my life. No, never mind those pearls, Celeste; I fear Dr. Wiseman might find them brighter than my eye, which would not do by 'no manner of means.' There! I'm ready. Who ever saw so bewildering a bride?"
She turned from the mirror, and stood before Celeste, her eyes shining like stars, streaming with an unnaturally blazing light, the pallor of her face hidden by the rouge, the dark passion-flower drooping amid her curls, fit emblem of herself. There was an airy, floating lightness about her, as if she scarcely felt the ground she walked on – a fire and wildness in her large, dark eyes that made Celeste's heart ache for her. Very beautiful she looked, with her dark, oriental face, shaded by its sable locks, the rich, dark dress falling with classic elegance from her round, little waist. She looked, as she stood, bright, mocking, defiant, scornful – more like some fairy changeling – some fay of the moonlight – than a living creature, with a woman's heart. And yet, under that daring, bright exterior, a wild, anguished heart lay crushed and quivering, shedding tears of blood, that leaped to the eyes to be changed to sparks of fire.
"Let us go down," said Celeste, with a sigh.
"Yes, let us go. Do you know, Celeste, I read once of a man whom the Indians were going to burn to death at the stake, and who began cursing them when they led him there for making him wait so long. Now I feel just like that man; since I am to be doomed to the stake – why, the sooner the torture is over the better."
She looked so beautiful, so bewitching, yet so mocking and unreal, so like a spirit of air, as she spoke, that, almost expecting to see her vanish from her sight, Celeste caught her in her arms, and gazed upon her with pitying, yearning, love-lit eyes, from which the tears were fast falling.
"Don't cry for me, Celeste; you make me feel more like an imp than ever. I really think I must be a family relation of the goblin page we read about in the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel,' for I feel like doing as he did, throwing up my arms, and crying, 'Lost!' I'm sure that goblin page would have made his fortune in a circus, since his ordinary mode of walking consisted of leaps of fifty feet high or so. Crying still, Celeste! Why, I thought I'd make you laugh. Now, Celeste, if you don't dry your eyes, I'll go right up to where Aunty Gower keeps prussic acid for the rats, and commit suicide right off the reel. I've felt like doing it all the time lately, but never so much so as when I see you crying for me. Why, Celeste, I never was worth one tear from those blue eyes, body and bones. What's the use of anybody's grieving for a little, mad, hare-brained thing like me? I'll do well enough; I'll be perfectly happy – see if I don't! It will be such glorious fun, you know, driving Spider mad! And, oh, won't I dose him! Tra! la, la, la, la, la!" and Gipsy waltzed airily around the room.
At this moment there came a knock at the door. Celeste opened it, and Mrs. Gower, in the well-preserved silk and lace cap she had worn years before to Lizzie Oranmore's wedding, stood in the doorway.
"Oh, Celeste! why don't you hurry? Where is Gipsy? Oh, good gracious, child! not dressed yet? What on earth have you been doing? The people have been waiting these two hours, almost, in the parlors! Do hurry, for mercy sake, and dress!"
"Why, aunty, I am dressed. Don't you see I am all ready to become Mrs. Wiseman?"
"But my dear child, that black dress – "
"This black dress will do very well – suits my complexion best, which is rather of the mulatto order than otherwise; and it's a pity if a blessed bride can't wear what she likes without such a fuss being made about it. Now, aunty, don't begin to lecture – it'll only be a waste of powder and a loss of time; and I'm impatient to arrive at the place of execution."
Mrs. Gower sank horrified into a chair, and gazed with a look of despair into the mocking, defiant eyes of the elfin bride.
"Oh, Gipsy! what ever will the people say? In a black dress! Good heavens! Why, you'll look more like the chief mourner at a funeral than a bride! And what will Dr. Wiseman say?"
"Oh, don't, aunty! I hope he'll get into a passion, and blow me and everybody else up when he sees it!" cried Gipsy, clapping her hands with delight at the idea.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! did any one ever know such a strange girl? Just to think of throwing aside that beautiful dress that your guardian paid a small fortune for, for that common black lace thing, the worst dress you have!"
"Aunty – see here! – you may have this 'beautiful dress' when you get married. You're young, and good-looking, and substantial, too, and I shouldn't wonder if you had a proposal one of these days. With a little letting down in the skirt, and a little letting out in the waist – "
"Gipsy, hush! How can you go on with such nonsense at such a time? Miss Pearl, can you not induce her to take off that horrid black dress?"
"I think you had better let her wear it, madam. Miss Gower will not be persuaded."
"Well, since it must be so, then come. Luckily, everybody knows what an odd, flighty thing Gipsy is, and therefore will not be so much surprised."
"I should think the world would not be surprised at anything I would do since I have consented to marry that hideous orang-outang, that mockery of man, that death's-head, that 'thing of legs and arms,' that – "
"Hush! hush! you little termagant! What a way to speak of the man you are going to promise to 'love, honor, and obey,'" said the profoundly shocked Mrs. Gower.
"Love, honor, and obey! Ha, ha, ha! Oh, won't I though, with a vengeance! Won't I be a pattern wife! You'll see!"
"What do you mean, child?"
"Nothing, aunty," said Gipsy, with a strange smile, "merely making a meditation. Here we are at the stake at last, and there I perceive Reverend Mr. Goodenough ready to act the part of executioner; and there, too, is Dr. Wiseman, the victim – who, as he will by and by find out, is going to prove himself most decidedly a silly man to-day. Now, Gipsy Gower, you are going to create a sensation, my dear, though you are pretty well accustomed to that sort of thing."
They had reached the hall by this time, where Dr. Wiseman, Squire Erliston, and a number of others stood. All stared aghast at the sable robes of Gipsy.
"Oh? how is it? Why, what is the meaning of this?" demanded the squire, in a rage.
"Meaning of what, Guardy?"
"What do you mean, miss, by wearing that black frock?"
"And what business is it of yours, sir?"
"You impudent minx! Go right up stairs and take it off."
"I won't do anything of the kind! There now! Anybody that doesn't like me in this can let me alone," retorted Gipsy.
A fierce imprecation was on the lips of the squire, but Dr. Wiseman laid his hand on his arm, and said, in his oiliest tones:
"Never mind her, my dear sir; let her consult her own taste. I am as willing my bride should wear black as anything else; she looks bewitching in anything. Come, fairest lady."
He attempted to draw her arm within his, but she sprang back, and transfixing him with a flashing glance, she hissed:
"No; withered be my arm if it ever rests in yours! Stand aside, Dr. Wiseman; there is pollution in the very touch of your hand."
"You capricious little fairy, why do you hate me so?"
"Hate! Don't flatter yourself I hate you, Dr. Wiseman – I despise you too much for that," she replied, her beautiful lip curling scornfully.
"Exasperating little dare-devil that you are!" he exclaimed, growing white with impotent rage, "take care that I do not make you repent this."
"You hideous old fright! do you dare to threaten now?"
"Yes, and dare to perform, too, if you do not beware. Keep a guard on your tongue, my lady, or you know who will suffer for it."
The fierce retort that hovered on the lip of Gipsy was checked by their entrance into the drawing-room. Such a crowd as was there, drawn together for miles around by the news of this singular marriage. All shrank back and looked at one another, as their eyes fell on the ominous garments of the bride, as she walked in, proudly erect, beside her grim bridegroom.
"Beauty and the Beast!" "Vulcan and Venus!" "May and December!" were the whispers that went round the room as they appeared.
The Rev. Mr. Goodenough approached, and the bridal party stood before him – the doctor glancing uneasily at his little bride, who stood with her flashing eyes riveted to the floor, her lips firmly compressed, proud, erect and haughty.
The marriage ceremony commenced, and Mr. Goodenough, turning to the doctor, put the usual question:
"Nicholas Wiseman, wilt thou have Aurora Gower, here present, to be thy wedded wife, to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death doth you part?"
"Yes," was the reply, loud, clear, and distinct.
Turning to the bride the clergyman demanded;
"Aurora Gower, wilt thou have Nicholas Wiseman, here present, to be thy lawful husband, to have, and to hold?" etc.
A loud, fierce, passionate "No!" burst from the lips of the bride. Dr. Wiseman saw her intention, and was immediately seized with a violent fit of coughing, in which her reply was drowned.
The mockery of a marriage was over, and Nicholas Wiseman and Aurora Gower were solemnly pronounced "man and wife."
A mocking smile curled the lips of the bride at the words, and she turned to receive the congratulations of her many friends, to bear all the hand-shaking, and hear herself addressed as "Mrs. Wiseman."
"Now, beautiful fairy, you are my own at last. You see fate had decreed it," said the doctor, with a grim smile.
"And bitterly shall you repent that decree. Do you know what I was doing when I stood up before the clergyman with you?"
"No, sweet wife."
"Well, then, listen. I was vowing and consecrating my whole life to one purpose – one aim; and that is deadly vengeance against you for what you have done. Night and day, sleeping or waking, it shall always occupy my thoughts, and I will live now only for revenge. Ha! I see I can make your saffron visage blanch already, Dr. Wiseman. Oh! you'll find what a happy thing it is to be married. Since I must go down, I shall drag down with me all who have had part or share in this, my misery. You, viper, ghoul that you are, have turned my very nature into that of a fiend. Dr. Wiseman, if I thought, by any monstrous possibility, you could ever go to heaven, I would take a dagger and send my own soul to perdition, sooner than go there with you."
There was something in her words, her tone, her face, perfectly appalling. Her countenance was deadly white, save where the rouge colored it, and her eyes. Oh! never were such wild, burning, gleaming eyes seen in any face before. He cowered from her like the soul-struck coward that he was; and, as with one glance of deadly concentrated hate she glided from his side and mingled with the crowd, he wiped the cold perspiration off his brow, and realized how true were the words oft quoted:
"Hell has no fury like a woman scorned,"
and began to fear that, after all, Mount Sunset was purchased at a dear price.
CHAPTER XXV.
ARCHIE'S LOST LOVE
"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 pass; 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 God'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!"
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.