Sharing Her Crime Part 63

"'Stonis.h.i.+ng! I guess so!" said Mrs. Donne; "if you knew what I do, you'd say so."

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

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

"On the very night you speak of, Christmas eve, nineteen years ago, I was brought by a young man to a house in the distant part of the city to nurse a woman and child. The young man was tall, and dark, and powerful handsome, but sort o' fierce-looking; and she--oh, she was the loveliest creature 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 I wrapped myself up to come home. As I was going out, he called on me to stop. So I sat down to listen, and he told me, if I'd take the child home with me, and take care on't, he'd pay me well. I had neither chick nor 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 to rest. Two or three minutes after, there was a great cry of fire. I became frightened; dropped the baby in my confusion; wandered off I know 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 beach till nigh mornin', but I could see no signs of it; and I supposed the tide carried the poor little thing away. I was dreadfully sorry, you may be sure; but as it couldn't be helped, I thought I'd make the best of it, and say nothing about it. So when the young man came, I told him it was doing very well. And he never asked to see it, but gave me some money, and went away.

"For some time after he continued sending me money; but he soon stopped altogether, 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 the miniature she had found on his neck when dead, she handed it to Mrs.

Donne. That personage seized it, with a stifled shriek, as she exclaimed:

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

"Oh! dear! dear! dear! what _would_ Miss Lizzie say if she heard this?"

e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 an odd-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 baby before."

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

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

"On the left. Laws a ma.s.sy 'pon me! what's the matter?" said the astonished 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 pa.s.sage.

Going out, she caught her by the arm and drew her into the room. Then before the young lady could recover from her astonishment at this summary proceeding, she had unfastened her dress, pulled it down off her left 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 even saying, 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. It was bright red with a white border, and the letters J. D. (which stands for 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; while Gipsy stood gazing from one to the other in the utmost perplexity.

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

Without replying, Mrs. Gower left the room, and presently reappeared with a faded crimson shawl, which she spread upon the bed. Mrs. Donne uttered 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?" exclaimed Gipsy.

For reply, Mrs. Gower briefly narrated what had been told her by Mrs.

Donne. The surprise of Gipsy may be imagined, but her surprise scarcely equaled her pleasure.

"Thank G.o.d!" she fervently exclaimed, as Mrs. Gower ceased, "then I have _not_ married the murderer of my mother--that thought would have rendered me wretched to my dying day. My mother, then, may be living yet, for all you know."

In her exultation Gipsy first rode over to tell Celeste, then coming home 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 sh.o.r.e, 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."

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

THE HEIRESS OF SUNSET HALL.