CHAPTER XXXVI.
RETRIBUTION
"Oh, woman wronged can cherish hate
More deep and dark than manhood may,
And when the mockery of fate
Hath 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.
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 neighboring city. The peculiar and romantic circumstances attending it, imperfectly known as they were, the respectability of the parties implicated, the high standing of the prisoner in society – all contributed to add to the general interest of the case.
The rapid and exciting events, the startling discovery that Gipsy was his grandchild, so confounded and bewildered the squire, who was never noted for the brightness of his intellect, that it completely upset his equilibrium; and his days were passed alone, smoking and staring stupidly at every one he saw. As for Lizzie, she was too feeble and languid either to feel horror or surprise, and a faint stare and shiver was the only effect the news produced upon her. Mrs. Gower groaned in spirit over the depravity of mankind in general, and Dr. Wiseman in particular; and generally passed her days in solemn exhortations to the servants, to be warned by his fearful example, and mend their ways.
On Gipsy, therefore, all the business of the household devolved. A great change had come over the elf; her laughing days seemed passed; and quietly establishing herself as mistress of the household, she issued her orders with a quiet dignity and calm authority, that commanded obedience and respect. She wrote to Louis, informing him of all that had occurred, and desiring him to return home immediately.
The only moments of relaxation which Gipsy ever allowed herself were her visits to Valley Cottage, listening to the gentle words of Celeste – "dear Celeste," as Gipsy called her. Day by day she had grown paler and frailer, her step had lost its airy lightness, her cheeks no longer wore the hue of health; but no complaint ever passed her lips. Gipsy often passed her nights at the cottage, feeling it a comfort to pour her troubles into the sympathizing ears of her friend. And Celeste would 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 unable to leave her bed. Fearing the shock might prove fatal, Celeste had taken care she should not hear of her brother's arrest. As for Minnette, no one knew where she was; and, indeed, few cared – for her hard, selfish nature had made her disliked by all.
One evening, Mrs. Gower sat in one of the upper chambers conversing with Mrs. Donne, whose life, it will be remembered, Gipsy saved. That worthy old lady was still an inmate of Sunset Hall, and unwilling to leave her comfortable quarters while suffering with the "rheumatiz." In the confusion and excitement following the arrest, she had been almost totally neglected, and had as yet no opportunity of learning the particulars. Providentially encountering Mrs. Gower, when really dying of curiosity, she began plying her with questions; and the worthy housekeeper, delighted to find so attentive a listener, sat down, and with much gravity began narrating the whole affair, while the attention of her auditor deepened every moment.
"Laws a massy 'pon me!" exclaimed Mrs. Donne, as she ceased; "was she picked 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'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?" 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 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 massy '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 passage. 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 God!" 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 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."
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE HEIRESS OF SUNSET HALL
"A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warm, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still and bright,
With something of an angel light." – Wordsworth.
The darkened rooms, the hushed footfalls, the whispered words, the anxious faces, betoken the presence of sickness. Like some long, dark effigy, Miss Hagar lies on her bed, prostrated in body and mind, and sick unto death. By her side sits Celeste, in a quiet dress of soft gray, her golden hair lying in bands on her fair cheeks, pale and thin with long days and nights of unceasing watching.
Never had the tender love and cherishing care of the young girl been so manifested as in the sick-room of her benefactress. Night and day, like some angel of mercy, she hovered over the couch of the invalid – ready at the slightest motion to hold the cup to her parched lips, or bathe her burning brow. Nothing could induce her to leave her side, save, when tired Nature could watch no longer, she sought her couch to catch a few moments' sleep. And Miss Hagar, with the usual fretful waywardness of illness, would have no one near her but Celeste. Gipsy had offered her services as assistant nurse, but was most promptly rejected.
"I want Celeste. Where is Celeste?" was ever the cry of the invalid.
It was the second week of Miss Hagar's illness. For days she had been raving deliriously, recognizing no one, not even Celeste. Toward the close of the tenth day she grew worse, and the doctor pronounced the crisis of her disease at hand.
Evening was approaching, the evening of a bleak January day. The snow was falling drearily without; and the cold wind wailed and moaned around the lonely house. The fire, burning low in the grate, cast a red, fitful, uncertain light through the room, giving everything an unearthly, spectral appearance. Celeste sat by the window, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on the desolate prospect without, her mind and heart far away – far away. Her face was wet with tears, but she knew it not; sobs, long and deep, that she struggled in vain to repress, swelled her bosom. Never in her life had she felt so utterly desolate; yet a sort of awe mingled with her tears, as she felt herself in the presence of death.
Night fell in storm and darkness. In the deep gloom, nothing could be discerned save the white; unearthly light of the drifting snow. Celeste arose, drew the curtain, lit a small lamp, and was about to resume her seat, when she heard her name pronounced by the lips of the invalid.
In a moment she was bending over her. Reason had returned to its throne; and for the first time in many weeks, Miss Hagar recognized her.
"Thank God!" exclaimed Celeste, joyfully. "Dear Miss Hagar, do you not know me?"
"Certainly, Celeste," said the invalid, passing her hand across her eyes, as if to clear away a mist. "I have been ill, have I not?"
"Yes; but now you will recover. I feared you would never speak to me more; but now you will get well, and we will be happy together once more."
"No, child, I will never get well. Something here tells me that I am called," said Miss Hagar, solemnly, laying her hand on her heart. "I am sinking fast, and perhaps I may never see the morning dawn. I wish I could see them all before I die. Send for my brother and Archie Rivers, and little Gipsy, and Minnette! Poor Minnette! I have been harsh to her sometimes, I am afraid; and I would ask her pardon before I depart. Why don't you send for them, Celeste?"
What should she do? What ought she to say? How could she tell her what had happened?
"Dear Miss Hagar," she said, gently, "neither the doctor, nor Minnette, nor Archie, are at home. But if you will see Gipsy, I will go for her."
"All gone! all gone!" murmured the sick woman, feebly, "scattered far and wide. But you, Celeste, you have stood by me through all; you have been the staff and comfort of my old age. May God bless you for it! Truly has he said: 'Cast thy bread upon the waters, and it shall return unto thee after many days.' But, child, have you never wondered who you were; have you never wished to know who were your parents?"
"Oh, yes, often!" replied Celeste, eagerly, "but I knew, when the proper time came, you would tell me; so I never asked."
"Well, that time has come at last. It is but little I can tell; for I neither know who you are, nor what is your name. The way you came under my care is simply this:
"One night, as I was returning home from the village, at an unusually late hour, a little girl came running out from a wretched hovel, and begged me to enter with her, for her aunty, as she called her, was dying. I went in, and found an old woman lying on a heap of rags and straw, whose end was evidently at hand. I did what I could for her; but I saw she was sinking fast. Her whole care seemed to be for her little girl, who crouched at the foot of the bed, weeping bitterly. In her anxiety for her, she seemed to forget her own sufferings.
"'What will she do when I am gone? Who will protect her and care for her in this selfish world?
"Is she an orphan?" I asked.
"'That I do not know. The child is a foundling, and no relation to me; but I love her as though she were my own child. Oh! what will become of her when I am gone?
"'And have you no clue to her birth?
"'None. One Christmas eve, about twelve years ago, my husband was caught in a storm coming from A – . As he was hurrying along by the shore road, he saw a sleigh in advance of him, and hastened on in hopes to overtake it. In his hurry his foot struck against something on the ground, and he stumbled and fell. As he arose, he turned to examine it; and judge of his surprise at finding it to be a young infant, wrapped in a long shawl, and sweetly sleeping. In his astonishment he stood rooted to the ground, unable to move, and the sleigh passed on, and was soon out of sight. It was evident to him that the inmates of the sleigh had either left it there to perish, or it had accidentally fallen out. In either case, the only thing he could do was to take it home, which he did; and handed it to me, half frozen, the next morning. Our own little girl was dead; and this child seemed so like a god-send to fill her place, that I received it with joy, and resolved to adopt it, if its parents never claimed it. For months we lived in the constant dread that it would be taken from us; but years passed on, and no inquiry was ever made concerning it. We named her Celeste; for there was something truly celestial in her sweet, angel-like face, and loving nature; and never did parents love any only child as we did her.
"'We were in very comfortable circumstances then; but when Celeste was about eight years old, my husband died; and after that everything seemed against us. We got poorer and poorer; and I was forced to take in sewing, to keep us from starving. For nearly four years I worked at this, stitching away from daylight till dark; and then scarcely able to keep soul and body together. Celeste assisted me nobly; but at length my health began to fail, and I resolved to leave the city. My husband's friends had formerly resided here, and I was in hopes of finding them; but when I came, I learned that they were all gone. Last night I was taken dangerously ill; and now I feel that I am dying; and my poor Celeste will be left utterly friendless and alone. She is beautiful, as you see; and what her fate may be, should she live to grow up, I dare not think of. My poor, poor Celeste!
"The deep affliction of the dying woman, and the heartfelt grief of the child, touched me deeply. I resolved that the poor orphan should not be left to struggle alone through the world. I was not rich, but still I was able to provide for her. In a few brief words I told her my resolution; and never shall I forget the fervent gratitude that beamed from the dying eyes, as she listened.
"'May God forever bless you!' she exclaimed, 'and may the Father of the fatherless reward you for this!
"That night she died; and next day she was buried at the expense of the parish. I took you home; and since then you have been my sole earthly joy, Celeste; and now that I am dying, I leave you, as a legacy, your history. Perhaps some day you may yet discover your parents, if they live."
Utterly exhausted, Miss Hagar's lips ceased to move. During all the time she had been speaking, Celeste had remained as if riveted to the spot, with an emotion unnoticed by Miss Hagar. Her pale face grew whiter and whiter, her eyes were slowly dilating, her lips parted; until, when the spinster ceased, her head dropped on her hands, while she exclaimed, half aloud:
"Can I believe my ears? Then I am that other child left to perish on the beach that stormy Christmas Eve. Good heavens! Can it be that I am the child of Esther Erliston? Have I discovered who I am at last?"
"What are you saying there?" said Miss Hagar, feebly.
"Miss Hagar!" exclaimed Celeste, starting with sudden energy to her feet, "I am going to Sunset Hall, for Squire Erliston. You must repeat this story to him; it concerns him more than you are aware of, and will clear up a mystery he cannot now penetrate."
"As you please, child," said Miss Hagar, too weak to resist; "but you will not stay long?"
"No; I will be back in less than an hour," replied Celeste, whose cheeks were now flushed, and her eye burning with excitement, as she seized her cloak and hood, and hurried into the kitchen.
Curly, their only servant, was dozing in her chair by the hearth. Rousing her up, Celeste sent her in to watch with her patient until her return.
"Remember you must not fall asleep until my return; I will be back very shortly," said the young mistress, as she tied on her mantle.
"But laws! misses, you ain't a goin' out in de storm to-night!" said Curly, opening her eyes in wonder.
"Yes, I must, for an hour or so. Secure the door, and do not leave Miss Hagar until I come back," said Celeste, as she opened the door.
A blinding drift of snow met her in the face; a fierce gust of wind pierced through her wrappings, and sent the embers on the hearth whirling redly through the room. It required all her strength to close the door after her, but she succeeded, after two or three efforts, and stepped out into the wild wintry storm.
At length St. Mark's was reached; and looking up, she could see the welcome lights of Sunset Hall streaming redly and warmly on the cold, drifting snow. Elevated above the village, its windows glowing with light, it looked the very picture of a home of ease and luxury.