STARTLING NEWS.
In her dying hour Lelia could never be more ghastly than when that
startling name fell from the lawyer’s lips:
“Gipsy Darke!”
Her face became ashen white, a dull film glazed over the brightness of
her large, blue eyes, her head sank back against her chair, her heart
throbbed with a fierce resentment and sense of loss that nearly split
it in twain.
But in the general consternation her angry agitation passed almost
unnoticed.
The general was sputtering with surprise and indignation, Mrs. Ritchie
burst into hysterical sobs and cries, Lelia moaned dismally, and Laurie
alone remained silent, quite as surprised as any, but not so angry.
A bombshell from an enemy’s camp, exploding in their midst, could not
have created a greater sensation.
Gipsy Darke, the nameless gipsy waif, the despised dependent, neglected
and scorned, handed on from one compassionate hand to another till she
became Miss Willoughby’s protégée, had cunningly worked her way to the
old woman’s heart, supplanting her relatives and legal heirs--she the
heiress? Oh, it was impossible! The thought was hideous, odious!
Yet Lawyer Gilmer had read it thus in the will, and he sat silent now
with a very non-committal air, probably enjoying their discomfiture.
Mrs. Ritchie was the first to find her voice. She almost shrieked:
“I always said so--you know I did, general! I said, over and over, that
Gipsy Darke, in our absence from The Crags, would worm herself into
that silly old maid’s soft heart! I said often that the gipsy brat
ought to be sent away in time, but no one heeded me except Lelia, and
we two could do nothing alone! Now the hateful schemer has robbed us
all of our due, and----”
“Speak no ill of the dead!” interrupted Laurie sternly.
She glared at him mutinously, but the lawyer here interposed, saying:
“I can assure you that the heiress of Miss Willoughby’s money had no
idea of her good fortune, for it was a secret from all but myself and
Doctor White, who witnessed the will.”
“But how did my sister arrive at so strange a conclusion--to disinherit
her own kith and kin in favor of her protégée?” inquired the general
testily.
“Just as the will has already narrated; because she admired the young
lady’s true womanliness of character, loved her for her dutifulness,
and was grateful because she had saved the lives of two of her dearest
relatives,” returned the lawyer, adding:
“Miss Willoughby first declared her intention of adopting Miss Darke at
once and presenting her to the world as her heiress, but I persuaded
her not to spring the sensation then, but to be content with naming
her in her will. She took my advice, but decided that in the future
she would give the young girl an easier and happier position in the
household, more like a daughter or younger sister’s place. As we have
seen, death stepped in and frustrated her kindly plans.”
The lawyer rather enjoyed the sensation he was creating. He did not
admire the proud Lelia who, he saw, had counted on being the heiress.
But as if a sudden rift had appeared in the cloud, Mrs. Ritchie cried
out gladly:
“But Miss Darke being dead, the will is null and void, and the money
reverts to Miss Willoughby’s lawful heirs.”
“I beg your pardon, there is no proof of Miss Darke’s death. She may
be alive somewhere, and the news of her inheritance may result in her
reappearance,” suavely returned the lawyer.
Oh, how Lelia repented then that to save the sensation and gloom of
a funeral, she had cast poor Gipsy’s body into the old well. Now she
realized her terrible mistake.
She would have given much to be able to cry out to him that Gipsy Darke
was certainly dead; she had looked on her cold, dead face; she could
tell him where to find the poor girl’s body. If she might but tell him
these things and settle his doubts at once, the relatives could have no
difficulty in claiming the whole estate.
But even while these thoughts crossed her mind, Laurie began to speak
for the first time.
“Even in the event of Miss Darke’s death she may have relatives to
claim her property, so that we really cannot consider ourselves as
having any claim at all,” he said.
Lelia and Mrs. Ritchie tried to freeze him out with cold looks of
warning, but he was not conscious of their angry regards; he was
looking straight at the lawyer, who replied:
“You are quite correct, Mr. Willoughby.”
The general cut in testily:
“As I look at it, the girl could not have any relatives or she would
not have been deserted so heartlessly. Probably her parents were dead,
and, the gipsies not wishing to support the child, left it to perish.
If any of them dare to appear as claimants I shall certainly brand them
as impostors!”
“Quite right!” applauded Mrs. Ritchie, while her daughter beamed
approval.
Only Laurie remained gravely silent, commending in his heart his aunt’s
choice of an heiress and wishing that beautiful, true-hearted, brave
Gipsy Darke might have lived to enjoy her good fortune.
He did not feel the least worried or grieved over his failure to
inherit the bulk of the property; he had a feeling as if he were
stunned by the hurrying events of the past month, and there was also a
distinct sense of triumph at Lelia’s defeat.
He had always felt a sense of disgust at her rapacity, at her planning
and scheming from babyhood for the money. He was glad that she had lost
it and that Gipsy Darke had been chosen as the heiress. It seemed like
poetic justice.
He became suddenly aware that the lawyer was speaking again:
“I would advise you,” he said, “to offer a small reward for news of
Gipsy Darke, living or dead.”
“I have already employed a detective to search for the young girl,”
returned Laurie, heedless of the angry flash of Lelia’s eyes.
“It can do no harm to offer a reward also, so as to get at the root
of the mystery as soon as possible. Let it be known among the servants
of The Crags that you will pay for the news you want, and they will be
roused into the greatest activity at once. The newspapers can also be
used as a medium to elicit the truth.”
“I will give it my immediate attention,” answered Laurie quickly; and
then the painful scene ended by the separation of the party--Lelia
going with her mother to her own room, where they roundly denounced
the dead woman for her treachery, and Lelia, tearing off her weeds of
mourning, trampled them angrily under foot.
She appeared that evening in a rose-pink gown with diamonds blazing in
her hair and on her breast--the diamonds Gipsy had saved to her at such
bitter cost--and at Laurie’s glance of cold surprise, she exclaimed
excusingly:
“A bride must not go into mourning, you know, dear Laurie. It would
seem ill-omened.”
She wondered why he started slightly and grew so pale at her words.
The truth was that every now and then Laurie, in his perturbation of
mind, would forget Lelia’s claim on his name and love, and regard her
as his cousin only until one of her pointed reminders would recall him
to the hateful truth.
He would pale with regret and writhe in disgust every time he
remembered that she had a wife’s claim upon him now that nothing could
induce her to forego.
For even though she had lost the fortune, she had captured Laurie,
whom she loved with jealous passion, and whose coldness, so unlike his
former tenderness, nearly drove her mad with jealous anger.
She had this triumph at least, and she was not going to let him forget
it.
Several days passed away, but she could see no sign of returning love
in her indifferent husband. He remained coldly aloof, avoiding her
strictly by night and day, seemingly absorbed in business cares.
Still, there came no tidings of Gipsy, until at length he received
a note written in a cramped handwriting on coarse paper without a
signature:
“You will find the body of Gipsy Darke in the old mineral well on the
grounds among the thickest shrubberies.”
Laurie Willoughby was like a man stunned by a heavy blow as he read,
and staggered to a chair.