Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

"To see me?" said the squire, in amazement. "What does he want? I won't see anybody to-night."

"He's got a letter, and says he must d'liver it to-night – it's very important," said Jupiter.

"Humph! well, admit him then. I never can get a minute's peace. 'No rest for the wicked,' as Solomon says. Well, here he comes."

As he spoke, a youth, apparently about sixteen, entered the apartment, bearing every evidence of having journeyed fast.

"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 document. 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 scrape, 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 passed 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 hearse-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.

"Yes."

"Great Heaven! how just is thy retribution! And at last, in my dying hour, I behold before me the child of Esther Erliston and Alfred Oranmore!" exclaimed the dying woman, falling back on her pillow, and clasping her hands.

"What!" exclaimed Gipsy, springing forward, and seizing her by the arm. "Whose child, did you say I was?"

"The only daughter of Esther Erliston and Alfred Oranmore; and heiress, in your mother's right, of Mount Sunset Hall," replied Mrs. Oranmore.

"And grandchild of Squire Erliston?"

"Yes."

Gipsy staggered back, and covered her face with her hands. Her emotion was but momentary, however; and again approaching the bed, she said, in a tone that was perfectly calm, though her wild, excited eyes spoke a different tale:

"Tell me all about this. How came I to be left to perish on the shore?"

"Leave the room, both of you," said the sick woman, to her attendants. They obeyed. "Now, sit down beside me," she continued, turning to Gipsy; "and tell me, are you married?"

"Yes, they say so – to old Dr. Nicholas Wiseman."

"Great heaven! what did you say?" exclaimed Mrs. Oranmore, in a voice of horror.

"Yes. It's surprising, ain't it, that I married that old man. But that's got nothing to do with your story. Go on," urged Gipsy.

"Child! child!" said the dying woman faintly, "you have wedded the murderer of your mother."

With a low, sharp cry Gipsy sprang to her feet – her countenance blanched to the hue of death.

"Did he know your history?" asked Mrs. Oranmore, breaking the long pause that followed.

"Yes; he heard it a few weeks before we were married," said Gipsy, in a voice that was hoarse and unnatural.

"Then he married you that he might possess Mount Sunset. Oh, the villainy of that wretch! But let him beware! for the day of retribution is at hand."

"Tell me all, from the beginning," said Gipsy, seating herself, and speaking in a tone as stern, and with a face as firm and rigid, as that of the grim invalid herself; but those eyes – those eyes – how they blazed!

There is little need to recapitulate the tale told to Gipsy – she related only what the reader already knows; the death of Esther by her instigation, but by his hand; and the infant left to perish in the waves.

"I suppose he left you on the shore, thinking the waves would wash you away," concluded Mrs. Oranmore, "when you were providentially saved by the same Almighty power that guarded Moses in his cradle of bulrushes. I supposed you had perished, and so did he; but the agonies of remorse I have suffered for what I have done, I can never reveal. Night and day, sleeping or waking, the last dying shrieks of Esther Oranmore have been ringing in my ears. My son married Lizzie Erliston; and his violent death was but the beginning of my living punishment. For his son's sake, I have kept my dreadful secret during life; but now, at the hour of death, a power over which I have no control compels me to reveal all. I am beyond the power of the law – I go to answer for my crimes at the bar of God; therefore, I fear not in making these disclosures. My hour has come."

"But he shall not escape!" said Gipsy, rising from the chair, on which she sat as if petrified, while listening to the story of her birth. "No! by the heaven above us both, his life shall pay for this! Woman," she continued, turning fiercely upon Mrs. Oranmore, "you shall not die until you have done justice to the child of her you have murdered! I will send for a magistrate; and you must make a deposition of all you have told me to him. Death shall not enter here yet, to cheat the gallows of its due!"

She sprang to the bell, and rang a peal that brought all the servants in the house flocking wildly into the room.

"Go to the nearest magistrate," she said, turning to the boy who had accompanied her from St. Mark's – "fly! vanish! Tell him it is a matter of life and death. Go! and be back here in ten minutes, or you shall rue it!"

The boy fled, frightened out of his wits by her fierce words and looks. Shutting the door in the faces of the others, Gipsy seated herself; and setting her teeth hard together, and clenching her hands, she fixed her eyes on the floor, and sat as immovable as if turning to stone. Mrs. Oranmore lay in silence – either not willing or not able to speak.

Ere fifteen minutes had thus passed, the boy returned, accompanied by a magistrate – a short, blustering, important personage. He bowed to Gipsy – who arose upon his entrance – and began drawing off his gloves, making some remark upon the inclemency of the weather, which she abruptly cut short, by saying:

"This woman is dying, and wishes to make a deposition. Here are writing-materials; sit down and commence – you have no time to spare."

Hurried away by her impetuosity, the little man found himself, before he was aware of it, sitting by the bedside, pen in hand, writing and listening, with many an ejaculation of wonder, horror, and amazement.

At length the deposition was duly drawn up and signed, and he arose, exclaiming:

"But, good heaven! madam, do you not know, if you survive, you will be arrested too, and – "

"Hush!" said Gipsy, sternly; "she is dying."

"I tell you I did not murder her," she exclaimed, almost springing up in bed; "it was he who gave her the poison! I never did it. Listen! do you not hear her shrieks? or is it not the cries of the fiends I hear already? He was afraid. Ha! ha! ha!" she said, with a horrid laugh, "I mocked him until he ventured to do it. He drowned her child, too; he said he did – he threw it into the sea; and dead people tell no tales. Who said it was alive? I will never believe it! It is dead! It is dead!"

She sank back exhausted. The magistrate gazed, white with horror; but Gipsy was calm, stern, and still.

"Look, look! they come for me – their arms are outstretched – they approach – they strangle me. Off, demon – off, I say!" A wild, piercing shriek rang through the house, then she fell back, her jaw dropped, her eyes grew glazed, her face rigid, and Madge Oranmore was dead.

There was a moment's appalled silence. Then the magistrate said:

"Let us leave this dreadful place; the very air seems tainted with blood."

Without a word, she turned and followed him from the room, and the house. Rejecting all his invitations to let him find lodgings for her in the city during the night, she accompanied him to his office, received a warrant for the arrest of Dr. Wiseman; and with two constables, set off immediately for Sunset Hall.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

RETRIBUTION

"Oh, woman wronged can cherish hateMore deep and dark than manhood may,And when the mockery of fateHath left revenge her chosen way."Whittier.

It was the afternoon of the following day. The squire sat alone, muttering to himself: "Singular! most singular! most ex-cess-ively singular! wants a private interview, eh! What the dickens can be in old Wiseman's noddle now? Maybe he wants to divorce Gipsy, and marry Lizzie. Ha! ha! ha! that would be a joke. Wonder what old Mother Oranmore wanted? that's another secret. I suppose she told Gipsy and – ha! here's Gipsy herself. 'Speak of Old Nick, and he'll appear,' as Solomon says. Well, what's the news?"

"Where's Dr. Wiseman?" inquired Gipsy, abruptly.

"Up stairs. He sent down word some time ago, that he had something important to tell me, and wanted a private interview. Think of that! But what is the matter with you? You look as if you'd been riding on a broomstick all night – as if you were the Witch of Endor, who told King Saul's fortune long ago."

As he spoke, a slow, heavy footstep was heard descending the stairs.

"There's old Wiseman now, pegging along," said the squire. "I never see him walking, since he broke his shin-bone, that he doesn't remind me of Old Nick himself. Now for this wonderful secret of his."

"Guardy, don't mention that I am here," said Gipsy, hurriedly. "I have a project in hand, that I fancy will astonish him a little, by and by."

"Well, be sure you're right, then go ahead, as Solomon says – you always have some project or other in your cranium to bother his brains."

"I fancy I will bother him a little more than usual this time," said Gipsy, with a low, bitter laugh – gliding through one door just as the doctor entered by another.

Dr. Wiseman, thin and attenuated by illness, looked even more ghastly and hideous (if such a thing were possible) than when we saw him last. He advanced, and took a seat near the fire.

"Well, Wiseman, what's this wonderful affair you have to tell me?" said the squire, adjusting himself in his seat to listen.

"It concerns my wife," replied the doctor, slowly.

"Yes, some complaint, I'll be bound! Now, I tell you what, Wiseman, I won't listen to your stories about Gipsy. She has always done what she liked, and she always shall, for what I care. If she likes to enjoy herself, she will, and you nor no one else shall interfere," said the squire, striking the table with an emphatic thump.

"Don't jump at conclusions so hastily, my dear sir," said the doctor, dryly. "I have no complaint to make of Mrs. Wiseman. It is of her birth and parentage I would speak."

"Her birth and parentage! Is the man mad? Don't you know she's a foundling?" said the squire, staring with all his eyes.

"Yes, but lately I have discovered who she is. You need not excite yourself, Squire Erliston, as I see you intend doing. Listen to me, and I will tell you all about it. The time has come for you to know.

"Perhaps you are not aware that for many years I have been the friend and confidant of Mrs. Madge Oranmore; but so it is. I was bound to her by the strongest ties of gratitude, and willingly served her in all things.

"One Christmas eve, just nineteen years ago, she sent for me in most urgent haste. I followed her messenger, and was shown to the lady's room. There I found an infant enveloped in a large shawl, which she told me I was to consign to the waves – in a word, to drown it. You start, Squire Erliston, but such was her command. She refused to tell me what prompted her to so fiendish an act. I was in her power, and she knew I dared not refuse; I therefore consented – "

"To drown the child?" said the squire, recoiling in horror.

"Listen – I feared to refuse, and promised to do it. I went to the beach, the tide was out; while I stood hesitating, I heard a sleigh approaching. I wrapped the child up closely, and laid it right in their way, and stood aside to watch the event; determined, in case they did not see it, to provide for it comfortably myself. Fortunately, they saw it. A woman who was in the sleigh took it with her – that woman was Mrs. Gower – that child is now my wife."

"Goo-oo-d Lord!" ejaculated the squire, whose mouth and eyes were open to their widest extent.

"When you told me how she had been found, I knew immediately it was the same. I had long felt remorse for what I had done, and I at once resolved to make reparation to the best of my power, by marrying the foundling. This, Squire Erliston, was the secret of my wish to marry Gipsy, which puzzled you so long.

"Still, I was completely ignorant of her parentage. Owing to my accident, I was unable to visit Mrs. Oranmore; but I wrote to her repeatedly, threatening her with exposure if she did not immediately reveal the whole affair. She grew alarmed at last, and sent me a letter that explained all, only begging me not to disgrace her, by letting the world know what she had done. That letter, I regret to say, has been unhappily lost."

"Well!" said the squire, breathlessly, seeing he paused.

"Well, sir, she told me all. My wife is the child of your eldest daughter, Esther, and Alfred Oranmore."

Bewildered, amazed, thunderstruck, the squire sat gazing upon him in a speechless horror.

"The way of it was this," continued the doctor, as calmly as though he was ordering him a prescription. "Alfred Oranmore, as you know, was accidentally drowned, leaving his wife in the utmost destitution. Mrs. Oranmore heard of it, and had Esther privately conveyed to her house, while she caused a notice of her death to be published in the papers. What her object was in doing this, I know not. Esther, she says, died in her house. How she came by her death, I cannot even guess. I knew nothing of it at the time, as I told you before. Mrs. Oranmore wished this child removed, that it might not be in the way of her son, Barry; and thinking I was as heartless and cruel as herself, she employed me to drown it. Such, Squire Erliston, is this singular story. I thought it my duty to inform you immediately."

"And Gipsy is my grandchild," said the squire, in the slow, bewildered tone of one who cannot realize what he says.

"Yes; and the rightful heiress of Mount Sunset," said the wily doctor, in a slow, triumphant tone.

"And the avenger of her mother!" cried the voice of Gipsy herself, as she stood before them. "Oh, wonderful Doctor Wiseman! astonishing indeed is thy talent for invention and hardihood. What a strain on your imagination it must have been, to invent such a story! Have you ever heard of the proverb, 'Murder will out,' my lord and master? Ho, there! Burke and Johnston, enter! here is your prisoner!"

She opened the door as she spoke, and the constables entered.

"What in the devil's name means this?" exclaimed the doctor, growing deadly pale.

"Yes, call on your master," mocked Gipsy; "he has stood by you long, but I fear he will not serve you more. Quick, there, Burke! on with the handcuffs. Gently, Doctor Wiseman – gently, my dear sir; you will hurt your delicate wrists if you struggle so. Did any prophetic seer ever foretell, Doctor Wiseman, your end would be by the halter?"

"What means this outrage? Unhand me, villains!" exclaimed the doctor, hoarse with rage and fear, as he struggled madly to free himself from the grasp of the constables.

"Softly, doctor, softly," said Gipsy, in a voice, low, calm, and mocking; "you are only arrested for the murder of my mother, Esther Oranmore, just nineteen years ago. Ah! I see you remember it. I feared such a trifle might have escaped your memory!"

The face of the doctor grew perfectly ghastly. He staggered back, and would have fallen, had he not been upheld by one of the men. Gipsy stood before him, with a face perfectly white, save two dark purple spots burning on either cheek. Her wild eyes were blazing with an intense light, her lips wreathed in a smile of exultant triumph; her long hair, streaming in disorder down her back, gave her a look that awed even the constables themselves.

"And now, Doctor Wiseman," she said, in a slow, bitter, but exulting voice, "I have fulfilled my vow of vengeance; my revenge is complete, or will be, when your miserable body swings from the gallows. I see now, your aim in compelling me to marry you; but you have failed. Satan has deserted his earthly representative, at last. No earthly power can save you from hanging now. Away with him to prison! The very air is tainted which a murderer breathes."

The men advanced to bear off their prisoner. At that moment the recollection of the astrologer's fell prediction flashed across his mind. Word for word it had been fulfilled. Before him, in ghastly array, arose the scaffold, the hangman, his dying agonies, and the terrible hereafter. Overcome by fear, horror, and remorse, with a piercing shriek of utter woe, the wretched man fell senseless to the floor.

"Take him away," said Gipsy, sternly, turning aside with a shudder of disgust; "my eyes loathe the sight of him!"

They bore him away. Gipsy stood at the window listening, until the last sound of the carriage died away in the distance; then, abruptly turning, she quitted the room, leaving the squire stunned, speechless, and bewildered by the rapidity with which all this had taken place.