"Nothing! nothing! nothing!" replied the doctor, remembering himself, and sinking back in his chair. "Pray, go on."
The squire eyed him suspiciously.
"My dear sir," said the doctor, every trace of emotion now passed away, "forgive my violence. But, really, the story seemed so improbable——"
"Improbable or not, sir," interrupted the squire, angry at being doubted, "it's true as Gospel. It was a snowy, unpleasant night. Mrs. Gower and Jupiter were returning from the city, and took the shore road in preference to going over the hills. As they went along, Mrs. Gower was forced to get out on account of the dangerous road; and hearing a child cry, she stooped down, and found Gipsy lying wrapped up in a shawl, in the sand. Well, sir, my housekeeper, as a matter of course—being a humane woman—brought the child (which could not have been a week old) home, and gave it her name. And that, sir, is the history of Gipsy Gower, let it seem ever so improbable."
Like lightning there flashed across the mind of the doctor the recollection of the advancing sleigh-bells which had startled him from the beach. This, then, was the secret of her disappearance! This, then, was the child of Esther Erliston and Alfred Oranmore! This wild, untamed, daring elf was the heiress, in her mother's right, of all the broad lands of the Erlistons. She had been brought up as a dependent in the house of which she was the rightful heiress: and the squire dreamed not that his "monkey" was his grandchild!
Thoughts like these flashed like lightning through the mind of Dr. Wiseman. The sudden, startling discovery bewildered him; he felt unequal to the task of conversing. And making some excuse, he arose abruptly, entered his gig, and letting the reins fall on his horse's neck, allowed him to make the best of his way home; while, with his head dropped on his breast, he pondered on the strange disclosure he had just heard.
No one living, it was evident, knew who she was, save himself. What would old Dame Oranmore say when she heard it? Wretch as he was, he found himself forced to acknowledge the hand of a ruling Providence in all this. The child who had been cast out to die had been nurtured in the home that was hers by right. By his hand the mother had perished; yet the heroism of the daughter had preserved his worthless life.
"What use shall I make of this discovery?" he mused, as he rode along. "How can I turn it to my own advantage? If I wish it, I can find little difficulty in convincing the world that she is the rightful heiress of Mount Sunset, instead of Louis Oranmore. But how to do it, without implicating myself—that's the question. There was no witness to the death-bed scene of Esther Erliston; and I can assert that Madam Oranmore caused me to remove the child, without mentioning the mother at all. I can also easily feign some excuse for leaving her in the snow—talk about my remorse and anguish at finding her gone, and all that. Now, if I could only get this hare-brained girl securely in my power, in such a way as to make her money the price of her freedom, I would not hesitate one moment about proclaiming it all. But how to get her in my power—she is keen and wide-awake, with all her madness, and not half so easily duped as most girls of her age. Let me think!"
His head fell lower, his claw-like hands opened and shut as though clutching some one, his brows knit in a hard knot, and his eyes seemed burning holes in the ground, with their wicked, immovable gaze.
At last, his mind seemed to be made up. Lifting his head, he said, with calm, grim determination: