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 cumber 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 worship becomes extinct during my absence, just send for me, and I'll shed a few tears, and everything will go off in fashionable 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.