Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

"I am aware of that fact, madam."

"Well, you also know that when this child, Alfred, was five years of age, my son, Barry, was born."

"Yes, madam."

"Perhaps you think it unnecessary for me to go so far back, doctor, but I wish everything to be perfectly understood. Well, these two boys grew up together, were sent to school and college together, and treated in every way alike, outwardly; but, of course, when at home, Barry was treated best. Alfred Oranmore had all the pride of his English forefathers, and scorned to complain; but I could see, in his flashing eyes and curling lips, that every slight was noticed. Mr. Oranmore never interfered with me in my household arrangements, nor did his son ever complain to him; though, if he had, Mr. Oranmore had too much good sense to mention it to me."

The lady compressed her lips with stately dignity, and the doctor looked down with something as near a smile as his wrinkled lips could wear. He knew very well Mr. Oranmore would not have interfered; for never after his marriage had the poor man dared to call his soul his own. The lady, however, did not perceive the smile, and went on:

"When Barry left college, he expressed a desire to travel for two or three years on the Continent; and I readily gave him permission, for Mr. Oranmore was then dead. Alfred was studying law, and I knew his dearest wish was to travel; but, as a matter of course, it was out of the question for him to go. I told him I could not afford it, that it would cost a great deal to pay Barry's expenses, and that he must give up all idea of it. Barry went, and Alfred staid; though, as things afterward turned out, it would have been better had I allowed him to go."

Her eyes flashed, and her brows knit with rising anger, as she continued;

"You know old Magnus Erliston – Squire Erliston, as they call him. You know also how very wealthy he is reputed to be – owning, besides the magnificent estate of Mount Sunset, a goodly portion of the village of St. Mark's. Well, Squire Erliston has two daughters, to the eldest of whom, in accordance with the will of his father (from whom he received the property), Mount Sunset Hall will descend. Before my husband's death, I caused him to will his whole property to my son Barry, leaving Alfred penniless. Barry's fortune, therefore, is large, though far from being as enormous as that Esther Erliston was to have. Well, the squire and I agreed that, as soon as Barry returned from Europe they should be married, and thus unite the estates of Oranmore and Erliston. Neither Barry nor Esther, with the usual absurdity of youth, would agree to this arrangement; but, of course, their objection mattered little. I knew I could easily manage Barry by the power of my stronger will; and the squire, who is rough and blustering, could, without much difficulty, frighten Esther into compliance – when all our schemes were suddenly frustrated by that meddler, that busy-body, Alfred Oranmore."

She paused, and again her eyes gleamed with concentrated hatred and passion.

"He went to Mount Sunset, and by some means met Esther Erliston. Being what romantic writers would call one of 'nature's princes,' he easily succeeded in making a fool of her; they eloped, were married secretly, and Squire Erliston woke up one morning to learn that his dainty heiress had abandoned papa for the arms of a beggar, and was, as the wife of a penniless lawyer, residing in the goodly city of Washington.

"Pretty Esther doubtless imagined that she had only to throw herself at papa's feet and bathe them with her tears, to be received with open arms. But the young lady found herself slightly mistaken. Squire Erliston stamped, and raged, and swore, and frightened every one in St. Mark's out of their wits; and then, calming down, 'vowed a vow' never to see or acknowledge his daughter more. Esther was then eighteen. If she lived to reach her majority, Mount Sunset would be hers in spite of him. But the squire had vowed that before she should get it, he would burn Sunset Hall to the ground and plow the land with salt. Now, doctor, I heard that, and set myself to work. Squire Erliston has a younger daughter; and I knew that, if Esther died, that younger daughter would become heiress to all the property, and she would then be just as good a wife for Barry as her sister. Well, I resolved that Esther should no longer stand in my way, that she should never live to reach her majority. Start not, doctor, I see that you do not yet know Madge Oranmore."

She looked like a very fiend, as she sat smiling grimly at him from her seat.

"Fortune favored me," she continued. "Alfred Oranmore, with two or three other young men, going out one day for a sail, was overtaken by a sudden squall – they knew little about managing a boat, and all on board were drowned. I read it in the papers and set out for Washington. After much difficulty I discovered Esther in a wretched boarding-house; for, after her husband's death, all their property was taken for debt. She did not know me, and I had little difficulty in persuading her to accompany me home. Three days ago we arrived. I caused a report to be circulated at Washington that the wife of the late Alfred Oranmore had died in great poverty and destitution. The story found its way into the papers; I sent one containing the account of her death to Squire Erliston; so all trouble in that quarter is over."

"And Esther?" said the doctor, in a husky whisper.

"Of her we will speak by and by," said the lady, with a wave of her hand; "at present I must say a few words of my son Barry. Three weeks ago he returned home; but has, from some inexplicable cause, refused to reside here. He boards now in a distant quarter of the city. Doctor, what says the world about this – is there any reason given?"

"Well, yes, madam," said the doctor, with evident reluctance.

"And what is it, may I ask?"

"I fear, madam, you will be offended."

"'Sdeath! man, go on!" she broke in passionately. "What sayeth the far-seeing, all-wise world of him?"

"'Tis said he has brought a wife with him from Europe, whom he wishes to conceal."

"Ha! ha!" laughed the lady, scornfully. "Yes, I heard it too – a barefooted bog-trotter, forsooth! But 'tis false, doctor! false, I tell you! You must contradict the report everywhere you hear it. That any one should dare to say that my son – my proud, handsome Barry – would marry a potato-eating Biddy! Oh! but for my indignation I could laugh at the utter absurdity."

But the fierce gleam of her eye, and the passionate clenching of her hand, bespoke her in anything but a laughing humor.

"I would not for worlds this report should reach Lizzie Erliston," she said, somewhat more calmly. "And speaking of her brings me back to her sister. Doctor, Esther Oranmore lies in yonder room."

He startled slightly, and glanced uneasily in the direction, but said nothing.

"Doctor," continued Mrs. Oranmore, in a low, stern, impressive voice, while her piercing eyes seemed reading his very soul, "she must never live to see the sun rise again!"

"Madam!" he exclaimed, recoiling suddenly.

"You hear me, doctor, and you must obey. She must not live to see Christmas morning dawn."

"Would you have me murder her?" he inquired, in a voice quivering between fear and horror.

"If you will call it by that name, yes," she replied, still keeping her blazing eyes fixed immovably on his face. "She and her child must die."

"Her child!"

"Yes, come and see it. The night of its birth must be that of its death."

She rose, and making a motion for him to follow her, led the way from the apartment. Opening a heavy oaken door, she ushered him into a dim bed-room, furnished with a lounge, a square bedstead, whose dark drapery gave it the appearance of a hearse, and a small table covered with bottles and glasses. Going to the lounge, she pointed to something wrapped in a large shawl. He bent down, and the faint wail of an infant met his ear.

"She is yonder," said the lady, pointing to the bed; "examine these bottles; she will ask you for a drink, give it to her – you understand! Remember, you have promised." And before he could speak, she glided from the room.

CHAPTER II.

THE DEATH OF ESTHER

"What shrieking spirit in that bloody room
Its mortal frame hath violently quitted?
Across the moonbeam, with a sudden gleam,
A ghostly shadow flitted." – Hood.

For a moment he stood still, stunned and bewildered. Understand? Yes, he understood her too well.

He approached the bed, and softly drew back the heavy, dark curtains. Lying there, in a troubled sleep, lay a young girl, whose face was whiter than the pillow which supported her. Her long hair streamed in wild disorder over her shoulders, and added to the wanness of her pale face.

She moaned and turned restlessly on her pillow, and opened a pair of large, wild eyes, and fixed them on the unprepossessing face bending over her. With lips and eyes opened with terror, she lay gazing, until he said, in as gentle a voice as he could assume;

"Do not be afraid of me – I am the doctor. Can I do anything for you, child?"

"Yes, yes," she replied, faintly; "give me a drink."

He turned hastily toward the table, feeling so giddy he could scarcely stand. A tiny vial, containing a clear, colorless liquid, attracted his eye. He took it up and examined it, and setting his teeth hard together, poured its contents into a glass. Then filling it with water he approached the bed, and raising her head, pressed it to her lips. His hand trembled so he spilt it on the quilt. The young girl lifted her wild, troubled eyes, and fixed them on his face with a gaze so long and steady that his own fell beneath it.

"Drink!" he said, hoarsely, still pressing it to her lips.

Without a word she obeyed, draining it to the last drop. Then laying her back on the pillow, he drew the curtain and left the room.

Mrs. Oranmore was sitting, as she had sat all the evening, stern and upright in her chair. She lifted her keen eyes as he entered, and encountered a face so pallid and ghastly that she almost started. Doctor Wiseman tottered rather than walked to a seat.

"Well?" she said, inquiringly.

"Well," he replied, hoarsely, "I have obeyed you."

"That is well. But pray, Doctor Wiseman, take a glass of wine; you are positively trembling like a whipped schoolboy. Go to the sideboard; nay, do not hesitate; it is not poisoned."

Her withering sneer did more toward reviving him than any wine could have done. His excitement was gradually cooling down beneath those calm, steady eyes, bent so contemptuously upon him.