Sharing Her Crime Part 60

"You are Squire Erliston, I believe," said the lad, bowing respectfully.

"Well, you may believe it," said the squire, testily; "it's a name I was never ashamed of. What do you want of me at this hour of the night, young man?"

"I have been sent with this letter," said the boy, presenting one; "it's a matter of life and death."

"Matter of life and death! Lord bless me!" exclaimed the astonished squire, "what can it mean? Hand me my spectacles, Mrs. Gower, and put them on my nose, till I overhaul this doc.u.ment. Maybe it contains state-treason, a gunpowder plot or something. 'The pen is mightier than the sword,' as Solomon says; though I'll be shot if I believe it.

Solomon didn't know much about swords, and acted queer sometimes--didn't behave well to his wife, they say. Humph! well, here goes."

So saying, the squire opened the letter and began to read. And as he read, his eyes began to protrude, till they threatened to shoot from his head altogether. The letter ran as follows:

"MAGNUS ERLISTON: Come to me immediately--am dying. I have something to tell you of the utmost importance, and I cannot die with it on my conscience. Above all things, do not, for your life, breathe a word of this to Dr. Wiseman. Come instantly, or you may repent it.

MADGE ORANMORE."

"Now, what in the name of Beelzebub does the woman mean?" exclaimed the squire, as he finished reading this. "How does she expect a man to turn out on a December night, with the gout in his legs? I say, youngster, do you know who sent you with this precious letter?"

"Yes, sir; my mistress, Mrs. Oranmore."

"And what's the matter with her, may I ask?"

"She has been ailing for some time; and a week ago, her illness took a dangerous turn. The doctors say she has but few days to live, and she seems to be anxious about some secret that preys on her mind. I have not rested day or night since I started for this place. I fear she will not live until I get back, unless you make haste."

"I know not what to do," said the squire, evidently appalled. "I'd like to see the old lady before she leaves this 'vale of tears,' as Solomon says, but how the mischief I'm to go, I can't tell. If she could only put off dying for a month or two, now, I'd go with pleasure, but I suppose she can't conveniently. 'Time and tide wait for no man,' as Solomon says. I mustn't tell old Wiseman, either, it seems--hum-m-m!

'Pon my life, I don't know what to say about it."

All this was muttered in a sort of soliloquy; and as he ceased, the merry jingle of bells approaching the house saluted his ears. The next moment, Gipsy, wrapped up in shawls, and hoods, and furs, fresh and bright as a daisy, danced into the room, exclaiming:

"Here I am, good folks! The ball was a horrid stupid affair, without a bit of fun, so I thought I'd come home." Here, catching sight of the stranger, Gipsy favored him with a stare of surprise, and was about to leave the room, when the squire called:

"Come back here, monkey; I'm in a confounded sc.r.a.pe, and I want you to help me out of it."

"All right; just hint what it is, will you? and I'll have you out of it in a twinkling."

"Read that," said the squire, placing the mysterious letter in her hand.

Gipsy read it, and then exclaimed:

"Well, there's some mystery here--that's certain. But you can't go, can you, Guardy?"

"To be sure I can't. You might as well expect Mrs. Gower, there, to dance the double shuffle, as expect me to go on such a journey."

"Well, Spider's not to know of it, and he couldn't go if he did, with his dilapidated continuations; Aunty Liz can't travel and lie asleep on a sofa at the same time; and Aunty Gower, poor woman! can't travel up stairs, under half an hour's panting and groaning; so none of them can go, _that's_ demonstrated--as old Mr. Blackboard used to say. Eh!

Guardy?"

"Yes, yes. But what's to be done?"

"Why, it's very clear what's to be done. _I'll_ go!"

"_You_," said the squire, with a stare. "What good can you do?"

"Come, now! I like that! I'll leave it to everybody, if I'm not worth the whole of you put together. Ain't I, now?"

"Mrs. Oranmore won't tell _you_ her secret."

"Well, if she don't, she'll lose the wisest, nicest _sensiblest_ confidante ever anybody had, though I say it. Any way, I'll try; and if she won't tell, why, she'll have to leave it alone--that's all. When do you start?" she asked, turning to the youth.

"Now, if you're ready," replied the lad.

"Yes, I'm ready. How did you come? by the stage?"

"No, in a sleigh--it's at the door."

"Well, then, I won't detain you. Good-bye for a week, Guardy; good-bye, Aunty Gower. Off we go!"

"Hadn't you better stay till morning," said Mrs. Gower, anxiously. "It is too cold and stormy to travel by night."

"And in the meantime this old lady may give up the ghost. No; there's no time to lose; and besides, I rather like the idea of a journey, to vary the monotony of St. Mark's. Good-bye all--I leave you my blessing," said Gipsy, with a parting flourish, as she left the room and took her place by the side of the boy in the sleigh. Nothing remarkable occurred on the journey. Gipsy, comfortably nestled under the buffalo robes, scarcely felt the cold. The next morning they halted at a wayside inn to take breakfast, and then dashed off again.

Owing to the state of the roads it was late in the afternoon when they reached the city; and almost dark when Gipsy, preceded by her companion, entered the gloomy home of Mrs. Oranmore.

"My stars! what a dismal old tomb. It really smells of ghosts and rats, and I should not wonder if it was tenanted by both," was Gipsy's internal comment as she pa.s.sed up the long, dark staircase, and longer, darker hall, and entered the sick-room of Mrs. Oranmore--the longest and darkest of all. Stretched on a hea.r.s.e-like bed--stiff, stark, and rigid, as though she were already dead--lay Madge Oranmore--her face looking like some grim, stern mask carved in iron. An old woman, whom the boy addressed as "mother," sat by her side.

The invalid started quickly at the sound of their footsteps; and seeing the boy, exclaimed, in a faint, yet eager and imperious tone:

"Has he come?"

"No; he is ill, and could not come," said Gipsy, stepping forward. "He is unable to walk, so I have come in his stead."

"Who are you?" demanded Mrs. Oranmore, sharply.

"Well, really, I'd be obliged to anybody who would tell me--at present, it's more than I know. I used to think I was Gipsy Gower--Squire Erliston's ward; but, of late, I've found out I don't belong to anybody in particular. I was picked up, one night, as if I had been a piece of drift-wood; and I expect, like Venus, I rose from the sea."

"Girl, have you come here to mock me?" exclaimed Dame Oranmore, fiercely.

"The saints forbid! I'm telling you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I was picked up one Christmas eve, nineteen years ago, on the beach, about a quarter of a mile from here; and--good Heaven! what's the matter with you?" exclaimed Gipsy, springing back.

With the shriek of a dying panther, Mrs. Oranmore sprung up in her bed, with her eyes starting from their sockets, as she fairly screamed:

"What! Heaven of heavens! did he not drown you?"

"Why, _no_; I rather think not--at least, if I ever was drowned, I have no recollection of it. But, my goodness! don't glare at me so--you're absolutely hideous enough to make every hair on a body's head stand perpendicular, with those eyes of yours."

"How were you saved? Answer me that! How were you saved?" again screamed the excited woman.

"Well, I don't recollect much about it myself; but Mrs. Gower told me, the other day, that she found me rolled up in a shawl, on the beach, like an Esquimaux papoose asleep in a snow-bank. I haven't any notion who the 'he' is you speak of; but if 'he' left me there to turn into an icicle, I only wish I could see him, and tell him a piece of my mind--that's all."

"And this was Christmas eve, nineteen years ago?" exclaimed Madge Oranmore, breathlessly.