Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

by May Agnes Fleming

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  ANOTHER SURPRISE.

  "No heiress art thou, lady, but the child Of one who's still unknown."

  Great was the excitement and consternation which the news of Dr.Wiseman's crime and arrest created in St. Mark's and the neighboringcity. The peculiar and romantic circumstances attending it, imperfectlyknown as they were, the respectability of the parties implicated, thehigh standing of the prisoner in society--all contributed to add to thegeneral interest of the case.

  The rapid and exciting events, the startling discovery that Gipsy washis grandchild, so confounded and bewildered the squire, who was nevernoted for the brightness of his intellect, that it completely upset hisequilibrium; and his days were passed alone, smoking and staringstupidly at every one he saw. As for Lizzie, she was too feeble andlanguid either to feel horror or surprise, and a faint stare and shiverwas the only effect the news produced upon her. Mrs. Gower groaned inspirit over the depravity of mankind in general, and Dr. Wiseman inparticular; and generally passed her days in solemn exhortations to theservants, to be warned by his fearful example, and mend their ways.

  On Gipsy, therefore, all the business of the household devolved. A greatchange had come over the elf; her laughing days seemed passed; andquietly establishing herself as mistress of the household, she issuedher orders with a quiet dignity and calm authority, that commandedobedience and respect. She wrote to Louis, informing him of all that hadoccurred, and desiring him to return home immediately.

  The only moments of relaxation which Gipsy ever allowed herself were hervisits to Valley Cottage, listening to the gentle words ofCeleste--"dear Celeste," as Gipsy called her. Day by day she had grownpaler and frailer, her step had lost its airy lightness, her cheeks nolonger wore the hue of health; but no complaint ever passed her lips.Gipsy often passed her nights at the cottage, feeling it a comfort topour her troubles into the sympathizing ears of her friend. And Celestewould forget her own sorrow in soothing and consoling the poor,half-crazed little elf.

  Miss Hagar, whose health had for some time been failing, was now unableto leave her bed. Fearing the shock might prove fatal, Celeste had takencare she should not hear of her brother's arrest. As for Minnette, noone knew where she was; and, indeed, few cared--for her hard, selfishnature had made her disliked by all.

  One evening, Mrs. Gower sat in one of the upper chambers conversing withMrs. Donne, whose life, it will be remembered, Gipsy saved. That worthyold lady was still an inmate of Sunset Hall, and unwilling to leave hercomfortable quarters while suffering with the "rheumatiz." In theconfusion and excitement following the arrest, she had been almosttotally neglected, and had as yet no opportunity of learning theparticulars. Providentially encountering Mrs. Gower, when really dyingof curiosity, she began plying her with questions; and the worthyhousekeeper, delighted to find so attentive a listener, sat down, andwith much gravity began narrating the whole affair, while the attentionof her auditor deepened every moment.

  "Laws a massy 'pon me!" exclaimed Mrs. Donne, as she ceased; "was shepicked up on the beach, Christmas eve, nineteen years ago?"

  "Yes; astonishing, isn't it?"

  "'Stonishing! I guess so!" said Mrs. Donne; "if you knew what I do, you'dsay so."

  "Why, what do you know? _do_ tell me," said Mrs. Gower, whose curiositywas aroused.

  "Well, I don't mind if I do; though I did intend to carry the secret tothe grave with me. But as I couldn't help it, they can't do nothing tome for losing the child.

  "On the very night you speak of, Christmas eve, nineteen years ago, Iwas brought by a young man to a house in the distant part of the city tonurse a woman and child. The young man was tall, and dark, and powerfulhandsome, but sort o' fierce-looking; and she--oh, she was the loveliestcreature I ever laid my eyes onto! She was nothin' but a child herself,too, and a furriner, I suspect, by her tongue.

  "Well, I staid there 'long with her, till nigh onto midnight; and then Iwrapped myself up to come home. As I was going out, he called on me tostop. So I sat down to listen, and he told me, if I'd take the childhome with me, and take care on't, he'd pay me well. I had neither chicknor child of my own, besides being a widder, and I took him at his word.He gave me a purse with a good round sum of money in it, on the spot,and promised me more.

  "I took the little one, wrapped it up in my shawl, and set out for home.

  "On the way I got tired; and when I reached the beach, I sat down torest. Two or three minutes after, there was a great cry of fire. Ibecame frightened; dropped the baby in my confusion; wandered off Iknow not how; and when I came back, not long afterward, it was gone.

  "Well, I 'clare to man! I was most crazy. I hunted up and down the beachtill nigh mornin', but I could see no signs of it; and I supposed thetide carried the poor little thing away. I was dreadfully sorry, you maybe sure; but as it couldn't be helped, I thought I'd make the best ofit, and say nothing about it. So when the young man came, I told him itwas doing very well. And he never asked to see it, but gave me somemoney, and went away.

  "For some time after he continued sending me money; but he soon stoppedaltogether, and I never heard from either of them more."

  "Did you ever find out his name?" inquired Mrs. Gower.

  "Yes. One day he dropped his handkerchief, going out. I picked it up,and his name was written on it in full: it was, _Barry Oranmore_!"

  "Barry Oranmore!" repeated Mrs. Gower, thunderstruck.

  "Yes, that was his name; and they were the handsomest pair ever I saw.I'm sure I'd know either of 'em again, if ever I saw them."

  Much agitated, Mrs. Gower arose, and going to where she had laid theminiature she had found on his neck when dead, she handed it to Mrs.Donne. That personage seized it, with a stifled shriek, as sheexclaimed:

  "My goodness gracious! it's the picter of the lady I 'tended. I'd knowthat face anywhere."

  "Oh! dear! dear! dear! what _would_ Miss Lizzie say if she heard this?"ejaculated Mrs. Gower, holding up her hands. "And the child, poor thing!are you sure it was drowned?"

  "Well, no; I ain't to say _sure_; but it's most likely. It was anodd-looking little thing, too, with a nat'ral mark, like a red cross,right onto its shoulder, which is something I never seed on any babybefore."

  But to the surprise of Mrs. Donne, Mrs. Gower sprang panting to herfeet, and grasped her by the arm, exclaiming:

  "On which shoulder was that mark? Say on which shoulder!"

  "On the left. Laws a massy 'pon me! what's the matter?" said theastonished Mrs Donne.

  "Good heavens! Can the child she speaks of have been----"

  "Who's?" inquired Mrs. Donne, eagerly.

  Before Mrs. Gower could reply, she heard Gipsy's foot in the passage.Going out, she caught her by the arm and drew her into the room. Thenbefore the young lady could recover from her astonishment at thissummary proceeding, she had unfastened her dress, pulled it down off herleft shoulder, and displayed a _deep-red cross_.

  Recovering herself, Gipsy sprang back, exclaiming indignantly:

  "What in the name of all that's impolite, has got into you, Aunty Gower?Pretty work this, pulling the clothes off a lady's back without evensaying, by your leave."

  But Mrs. Donne had seen the mark, and fell back, with a stifled cry.

  "That's it! that's it exactly! She's the child saved, after all."

  "Why, whose child am I _now_?" said the astonished Gipsy.

  "Can you describe the shawl the child you speak of was wrapped in?"inquired Mrs. Gower, without giving her time to answer Gipsy's question.

  "Yes, that I can--it was my own wedding shawl, as my blessed husband,who is now an angel up above, bought for me afore we were married. Itwas bright red with a white border, and the letters J. D. (which standsfor Jane Donne) in one corner, and the letters J. D. (which stands for_James_ Donne) in t'other," replied Mrs. Donne, with animation.

  Mrs. Gower sank into a seat and covered her face with her hands; whileGipsy stood gazing from one to the other in the utmost perplexi
ty.

  "What does all this mean?" she asked, at length.

  Without replying, Mrs. Gower left the room, and presently reappearedwith a faded crimson shawl, which she spread upon the bed. Mrs. Donneuttered a cry of joy when she saw it.

  "Sakes alive! that is the very one. Where on earth did you get it?"

  "Wrapped around the child."

  "Aunty, pray tell me what in the world does all this mean?" exclaimedGipsy.

  For reply, Mrs. Gower briefly narrated what had been told her by Mrs.Donne. The surprise of Gipsy may be imagined, but her surprise scarcelyequaled her pleasure.

  "Thank God!" she fervently exclaimed, as Mrs. Gower ceased, "then I have_not_ married the murderer of my mother--that thought would haverendered me wretched to my dying day. My mother, then, may be livingyet, for all you know."

  In her exultation Gipsy first rode over to tell Celeste, then cominghome she seated herself and wrote the following letter to Louis:

  "SUNSET HALL, ST. MARK'S,} December 23, 18--. }

  "DEAR LOUIS: In my last I told you I was the child of your Aunt Esther, and Alfred Oranmore; since then I have discovered we were mistaken. My father and yours, Louis, were the same--who my mother was, I know not; but Aunty Gower has shown me a likeness found on my father's neck when dead, representing a young and lovely girl, who must have been my mother; for though the picture is fair, and I am dark, yet they say they can trace a strong resemblance between us. It seems I was taken away by the nurse the night of my birth, and left on the shore, where aunty found me. What has become of their infant is yet unknown, but it may be it, too, was saved, and will yet be found. How singularly things are turning out! Who would ever think we were brother and sister? Do hasten home, dear Louis, more hearts than one are longing for your coming. I have a thousand things yet to tell you, but you know I hate writing, so I will wait until I see you. Your affectionate _sister_, GIPSY."