Sharing Her Crime: A Novel. May Agnes Fleming
Читать онлайн книгу.
young man started at the sound of her voice, and, looking up, said carelessly:
"Oh, it's you, is it? Are you for leaving?"
"Yes, sir; it's time I was home and to bed. I ain't used to bein' up late nights now – don't agree with my constitution; it's sorter delicate. Shouldn't wonder if I was fallin' into a decline."
The quizzical dark eyes of the young man surveyed the rotund person before him, and in spite of himself he burst out laughing.
"Well, now, if you was in a decline yourself, you'd laugh t'other side of your mouth, I reckon," said the offended matron. "S'pose you think it's very funny laughing at a poor, lone 'oman, without chick nor child. But I can tell you – "
"Ten thousand pardons, madam, for my offense," he interrupted, courteously, though there was still a wicked twinkle in his eye. "Pray sit down for a moment; I have something to say to you."
"Well, now, it don't seem exactly right to sit here with you at this hour of the night. Howsomever, I will, to oblige you," and the worthy dame placed her ample frame in a cushioned elbow-chair.
"Perhaps this argument may aid in overcoming your scruples," said the young man, filling her a glass of wine, and throwing himself on a lounge; "and now to business. You are a widow?"
"Yes, sir. My blessed husband died a martyr to his country – died in the discharge of his duty. He was a custom-house officer, and felt it his duty always to examine liquors before destroying them. Well, one day he took too much, caught the devil-rum tremendous, and left me a disconsolate widder. The coroner of the jury set onto him, and – "
"There, there! never mind particulars. You have no children?"
"No," said the old woman stiffly, rather offended by his unceremonious interruption.
"If you were well paid, you would have no objection to taking one and bringing it up as your own?" said the young man, speaking quietly, though there was a look of restless anxiety in his fine eyes.
"Well, no; I'd have no objection, if – " and here she slapped her pocket expressively, by way of finishing the sentence.
"Money shall be no object; but remember, the world must think it is your own —I am never to be troubled about it more."
"All right – I understand," 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.
MOUNT SUNSET HALL
"A jolly place, 'twas said, in days of old."
The 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