Sharing Her Crime Part 65

The fierceness of the storm, which increased in violence, precluded the possibility of entering into conversation; and the explanation was, therefore, of necessity, deferred until they stood safely within the cozy kitchen of Valley Cottage.

In a few brief words, Celeste gave them to understand that it concerned that "other child," left that eventful Christmas eve on the bleak stormy beach. This was sufficient to rivet their attention; and the squire, in his anxiety and impatience, forced his way into the sick-room, and stood by the bedside of Miss Hagar.

"Sorry to see you so sick, Miss Hagar; 'pon my life I am. I never expected to see you confined to your bed. Celeste--Miss Pearl, I mean--has told me you have something of the greatest importance to communicate to me."

"I do not see how it can possibly concern you, Squire Erliston," said Miss Hagar, faintly; "but since it is Celeste's desire, I have no objection to relate to you what I have already told her. Oh!" said the sufferer, turning over with a groan.

"Curly, leave the room," said Gipsy, who now entered; while Celeste tenderly raised the head of the invalid, and held a strengthening draught to her lips. Brokenly, feebly, and with many interruptions did the dying woman repeat her tale. Wonder, incredulity, and amazement were alternately depicted on the countenances of the squire and Gipsy, as they listened. She ceased at last; and totally exhausted, turned wearily aside.

"Then you, Celeste, are that child. You are the heiress of Sunset Hall!

Wonderful! wonderful!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Gipsy, pale with breathless interest.

"And my grandchild!" said the squire, gazing upon her like one bewildered.

"Hush!" said Celeste, in a choking voice, "she is dying."

It was even so. The mysterious shadow of death had fallen on that grim face, softening its gaunt outline into a look of strange, deep awe. The eyes had a far-off, mystic gaze, as if striving to behold something dim and distant.

All had fallen on their knees, and Celeste's choking sobs alone broke the silence.

The sound seemed to disturb Miss Hagar. She turned her face, with a troubled look, on the grief-bowed head of the young girl.

"Do not weep for me, Celeste, but for yourself. Who will care for you when I am dead?"

"I will!" said the squire, solemnly; "she is my own flesh and blood, and all that I have is hers. She is the long-lost, the rightful heiress of Mount Sunset Hall."

A smile of ineffable peace settled on that dying face. "Then I can go in peace," she said; "my last care is gone. Good-bye, Celeste. G.o.d bless you all! Tell my brother I spoke of him; and ask Minnette to forgive me.

Minnette--Minnette----"

The words died away. She spoke no more. Her long, weary pilgrimage was over, and Miss Hagar was at rest.

"Don't cry--don't cry," said the squire, dashing a tear from his own eyes, as he stooped over the grief-convulsed form of Celeste. "She's gone the way of all flesh, the way we must all go some day. Everybody must die, you know; it's only natural they should. 'In the midst of death we are in life,' as Solomon says."

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

"LAST SCENE OF ALL."

"Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow-- Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, Shall be to our true love as links to the chain."

--LONGFELLOW.

Two months have pa.s.sed away. It is a balmy, genial day in March. Never shone the sun brighter, never looked St. Mark's fairer; but within Sunset Hall all is silent and gloomy. The very servants step around on tiptoe, with hushed voices and noiseless footfalls. The squire is not in his usual seat, and the parlor is tenanted only by Gipsy and Celeste.

The former is pacing up and down the room, with a face almost deadly pale, with sternly-compressed lips, and sad, gloomy eyes. Celeste is kneeling like one in prayer, her face buried in her hands; she, too, is pale with awe and horror. To-day, Dr. Wiseman _dies on the scaffold_.

They needed no evidence to condemn him. Fear seemed to have paralyzed his cowardly soul, and he confessed all; and from the moment he heard his sentence, he settled down in a stupor of despair, from which nothing could arouse him.

The sound of carriage-wheels coming up the avenue roused them both, at last. Celeste sprang to her feet, and both stood breathless, when the door opened, and Squire Erliston entered.

"Well?" came from the eager lips of Gipsy.

"All is over," said the squire, gloomily, sinking into a seat. "I visited him in prison, but he did not know me--he only stared at me with a look of stupid imbecility. I could not arouse him for a long time, until, at last, I mentioned your name, Gipsy; then he held out his arms before him, as well as his chains would allow, and cried out, in a voice of agony I will never forget: 'Keep her off! keep her off! she will murder me!' Seeing I could do nothing for him, I came away; and in that state of stupid insensibility, he was launched into eternity."

Celeste, sick and faint with terror, sank into a seat and covered her face with her hands, and Gipsy shuddered slightly.

"And so he has perished--died in his sins," she said, at last. "Once, I vowed never to forgive him; but I retract that oath. May heaven forgive him, as I do! And now, I never want to hear his name again."

"But Minnette, where can she be? Who will tell her of this?" said Celeste, looking up.

"It is most strange what can have become of her," said the squire. "I have spared no pains to discover her, but, so far, all has been in vain.

Heaven alone knows whether she is living or dead."

"It is like her usual eccentricity," said Gipsy. "I know not where she is, yet I feel a sort of presentiment we will meet her again."

"Gipsy, come here," called good Mrs. Gower, one day, about a fortnight after, as that young lady pa.s.sed by her room on her way down stairs.

"Well, what is it?" said Gipsy, entering, and standing with her back to the door.

"Just look at this likeness; have you ever seen anybody like it?"

Gipsy took it, and looked long and earnestly.

"Well," said she, at length, "if I were a little less tawny, and had blue eyes and yellow hair, I should say it looked remarkably like myself--only I never, the best of times, had such a pretty face."

"Well, I was just struck by its resemblance to you. I think it must be your mother's picture."

"My mother's picture! My dear Aunty Gower, whatever put such an absurd notion into your head?"

"Because I am quite sure it is. Its very resemblance to you proves this; besides, I found it on your poor father's neck when he was dead."

"It is a sweet face," said Gipsy, heaving a wistful little sigh. "Who knows whether the original be living or dead? Oh, Aunty Gower! it may be that I still have a mother living in some quarter of the globe, who is ignorant she yet has a daughter alive. If I could only think so I would travel the world over to find her."

At this moment Totty burst into the room, her black face all aglow with delight.

"Oh, misses! Oh, Misses Sour! Oh, Misses Gipsy! guess who's 'rived," she breathlessly exclaimed.

"Who? who?" exclaimed both, eagerly.

"Young Ma.r.s.e Louis! he's down in de parlor wid----"

But without waiting to hear more, Gipsy sprang from the room, burst into the parlor, and beheld Louis standing in the middle of the floor, and the living counterpart of the picture she had just seen, leaning on his arm!

"Gipsy! my sister!" he exclaimed, but before he could advance toward her, a wild, pa.s.sionate cry broke from the lips of the strange lady, as she sprang forward, and clasped the astonished Gipsy in her arms.

"My daughter! my daughter!" she cried, covering her face with burning kisses.

Gipsy grew deadly pale; she strove to speak; but wonder and joy chained her ever-ready tongue.