Sharing Her Crime. May Agnes Fleming

said the nurse, nodding her head sagely. "S'pose it's the little one in there?"

      "It is. Can you take it away now?"

      "To-night?"

      "Yes."

      "But laws! ain't it too cold and stormy. Better wait till to-morrow."

      "No," was the quick and peremptory answer. "To-night, now, within this very hour, it must be removed; and I am never to hear of it more."

      "And the poor young lady? Seems sorter hard, now don't it? she'll take on wonderfully, I'm feared."

      A spasm of pain passed over his handsome face, and for a moment he was silent. Then, looking up, he said, with brief sternness:

      "It cannot be helped. You must go without disturbing her, and I will break the news to her myself. Here is my purse for the present. What is your address?"

      The woman gave it.

      "Very well, you shall hear from me regularly; but should we ever meet again, in the street or elsewhere, you are not to know me, and you must forget all that has transpired to-night."

      "Hum!" said the fat widow, doubtfully.

      "And now you had better depart. The storm has almost ceased, and the night is passing away. Is Ev—is my wife awake?"

      "No; I left her sleeping."

      "So much the better. You can take it with you without disturbing her. Go."

      The buxom widow arose and quitted the room. Oranmore lay on a lounge, rigidly motionless, his face hidden by his hand. A fierce storm was raging in his breast—"the struggle between right and wrong." Pride and ambition struggled with love and remorse, but the fear of the world conquered: and when the old woman re-entered, bearing a sleeping infant in her arms, he looked up as composedly as herself.

      "Pretty little dear," said the widow, wrapping the child in a thick woolen shawl, "how nicely she sleeps! Very image of her mother, and she's the beautifulest girl I ever saw in my life. I gave her some paregoric to make her sleep till I go home. Well, good-night, sir. Our business is over."

      "Yes, good-night. Remember the secret; forget what has transpired to-night, and your fortune is made. You will care for it"—and he pointed to the child—"as though it were your own."

      "Be sure I will, dear little duck. Who could help liking such a sweet, pretty darling? I s'pose you'll come to see it sometimes, sir?"

      "No. You can send me word of its welfare now and then. Go, madam, go."

      The widow turned to leave the room, and, unobserved by the young man, who had once more thrown himself on his face on the sofa, she seized a well-filled brandy-flask and concealed it beneath her shawl.

      Quitting the house, she walked as rapidly as her bulksome proportions would permit over the snowy ground. The road leading to her home lay in the direction of the sea-shore; and, as she reached the beach, she was thoroughly chilled by the cold, in spite of her warm wrappings.

      "It's as cold as the Arctic Ocean, and I've heerd say that's the coldest country in the world. A drop of comfort won't come amiss just now. Lucky I thought on't. This little monkey's as sound as a top. It's my 'pinion that young gent's no better than he ought to be, to treat such a lovely young lady in this fashion. Well, it's no business of mine, so's I'm well paid. Lor! I hope I hain't gin it too much paregoric; wouldn't for anything 'twould die. S'pose I'd get no more tin then. That's prime," she added, placing the flask to her lips and draining a long draught.

      As the powerful fumes of the brandy arose to her head, the worthy lady's senses became rather confused; and, falling rather than sitting on the bank, the child, muffled like a mummy in its plaid, rolled from her arms into a snow-wreath. At the same moment the loud ringing of bells and the cry of "Fire! fire!" fell upon her ear. It roused her; and, in the excitement of the moment forgetting her little charge, she sprang up as well as she could, and, by a strange fascination, was soon involuntarily drawn away to mingle with the crowd, who were hurrying in the direction of her abode.

      Scarcely five minutes before, Dr. Wiseman had quitted that very spot: and there, within a few yards of each other, the two unconscious infants lay, little knowing how singularly their future lives were to be united—little dreaming how fatal an influence one of them was yet to wield over him.

      Some time after, when the flames were extinguished and the crowd had quitted the streets for their beds—when the unbroken silence of coming morning had fallen over the city—the widow returned to seek for her child.

      But she sought in vain; the rising tide had swept over the bank, and was again retreating sullenly to the sea.

      Sobered by terror and remorse, the wretched woman trod up and down the dreary, deserted snowy beach until morning broke; but she sought and searched in vain. The child was gone.

CHAPTER V.

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MOUNT SUNSET HALL.

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      "A jolly place, 'twas said, in days of old."

      Wordsworth.

      he jingle of the approaching sleigh-bells, which had frightened Dr. Wiseman from the beach, had been unheard by the drunken nurse; but ten minutes after she had left, a sleigh came slowly along the narrow, slippery path.

      It contained but two persons. One was an elderly woman, wrapped and muffled in furs. A round, rosy, cheery face beamed out from a black velvet bonnet, and two small, twinkling, merry gray eyes, lit up the pleasantest countenance in the world.

      Her companion, who sat in the driver's seat, was a tall, jolly-looking darkey, with a pair of huge, rolling eyes, looking like a couple of snow-drifts in a black ground. A towering fur cap ornamented the place where the "wool ought to grow," and was the only portion of this son of darkness which could be discovered for his voluminous wrappings.

      The path was wet, slippery, and dangerous in the extreme. The horses were restive, and a single false step would have overturned them into the water.

      "Missus Scour, if you please, missus, you'd better git out," said the negro, reining in the horses, in evident alarm; "this yer's the wussest road I'se ever trabeled. These wishious brutes 'll spill me and you, and the sleigh, and then the Lor only knows what'll ever become of us."

      "Do you think there's any danger, Jupiter?" said Mrs. Gower (for such was the name her sable attendant had transformed into Scour), in a voice of alarm.

      "This road's sort o' 'spicious anyhow," replied Jupiter. "I'd 'vise you, Missus Scour, mum, to get out and walk till we is past this yer beach. 'Sides the snow, this yer funnelly beach is full o' holes, an' if we got upsot inter one of 'em, ole marse might whistle for you and me, and the sleigh arter that!"

      With much difficulty, and with any amount of whoaing, Jupiter managed to stop the sleigh, and assisted stout Mrs. Gower to alight. This was no easy job, for that worthy lady was rather unwieldy, and panted like a stranded porpoise, as she slowly plunged through the wet snow-drifts.

      Suddenly, above the jingling sleigh-bells, the wail of an infant met her ear. She paused in amazement, and looked around. Again she heard it—this time seemingly at her feet. She looked down and beheld a small, dark bundle, lying amid the deep snow.

      Once more the piteous cry met her ear, and stooping down, she raised the little dark object in her arms.

      Unfolding the shawl, she beheld the infant whose cries had first arrested her ear.

      "Good