



Produced by Brenda Lewis, woodie4 and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)









  POPULAR NOVELS.
  BY MAY AGNES FLEMING.

   1.--GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE.
   2.--A WONDERFUL WOMAN.
   3.--A TERRIBLE SECRET.
   4.--NORINE'S REVENGE.
   5.--A MAD MARRIAGE.
   6.--ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY.
   7.--KATE DANTON.
   8.--SILENT AND TRUE.
   9.--HEIR OF CHARLTON.
  10.--CARRIED BY STORM.
  11.--LOST FOR A WOMAN.
  12.--A WIFE'S TRAGEDY.
  13.--A CHANGED HEART.
  14.--PRIDE AND PASSION.
  15.--SHARING HER CRIME (_New_).


  "Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popular every day.
  Their delineations of character, life-like conversations, flashes of
  wit, constantly varying scenes, and deeply interesting plots,
  combine to place their author in the very first rank of Modern
  Novelists."


  All published uniform with this volume. Price, $1.50
  each, and sent _free_ by mail on receipt of price,

  BY
  G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,
  New York.




  SHARING
  HER CRIME.

  A Novel.

  BY
  MAY AGNES FLEMING,

  AUTHOR OF

  "GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE," "A TERRIBLE SECRET," "SILENT AND TRUE,"
  "A WONDERFUL WOMAN," "LOST FOR A WOMAN,"
  "ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY," "A MAD MARRIAGE,"
  ETC., ETC.

      "A perfect woman, nobly planned,
      To warn, to comfort, and command;
      And yet a spirit still and bright,
      With something of an angel light."


  NEW YORK: Copyright, 1882, by
  _G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_.

  LONDON: S. LOW & CO.
  MDCCCLXXXIII.


  Stereotyped by
  SAMUEL STODDER,
  90 ANN STREET, N. Y.

  TROW
  PRINTING AND BOOK BINDING CO.,
  N. Y.





                       CONTENTS.


   CHAPTER                                 PAGE

        I. The Plotters                       7

       II. The Death of Esther               18

      III. The Astrologer                    24

       IV. Barry Oranmore                    29

        V. Mount Sunset Hall                 37

       VI. Lizzie's Lover                    49

      VII. The Cypress Wreath                62

     VIII. Gipsy                             70

       IX. A Storm at Mount Sunset Hall      82

        X. Miss Hagar                        91

       XI. Gipsy Outwits the Squire         101

      XII. The Tigress and the Dove         109

     XIII. Gipsy Astonishes the Natives     119

      XIV. The Moonlight Flitting           130

       XV. The "Star of the Valley."        139

      XVI. Our Gipsy                        150

     XVII. Gipsy's Return to Sunset Hall    158

    XVIII. Archie                           169

      XIX. Gipsy's Daring                   182

       XX. The Sailor Boy's Doom            191

      XXI. The Spider Weaves his Web        204

     XXII. Fetters for the Eaglet           215

    XXIII. The Bird Caged                   222

     XXIV. May and December                 235

      XXV. Archie's Lost Love               246

     XXVI. Louis                            254

    XXVII. Love at First Sight              267

   XXVIII. "The Old, Old Story."            277

     XXIX. The Rivals                       287

      XXX. Gipsy Hunts New Game             296

     XXXI. Celeste's Trial                  306

    XXXII. "The Queen of Song."             318

   XXXIII. A Startling Discovery            328

    XXXIV. Light in the Darkness            334

     XXXV. The Death-bed Confession         341

    XXXVI. Retribution                      351

   XXXVII. Another Surprise                 357

  XXXVIII. The Heiress of Sunset Hall       364

    XXXIX. "Last Scene of All."             373





SHARING HER CRIME.




CHAPTER I.

THE PLOTTERS.


    "'Tis a woman hard of feature,
    Old, and void of all good nature.
    'Tis an ugly, envious shrew,
    Railing forever at me and you."--POPE.

It was Christmas Eve. All day long crowds of gayly dressed people had
walked the streets, basking in the bright wintry sunshine. Sleigh after
sleigh went dashing past, with merrily jingling bells, freighted with
rosy cheeks, and bright eyes, and youthful faces, all aglow with
happiness.

But the sun must set on Christmas Eve, as on all other days; and redly,
threateningly, angrily, he sank down in the far west. Dark, sullen
clouds came rolling ominously over the heavens; the wind blew piercingly
cold, accompanied with a thin, drizzling rain that froze ere it fell.

Gradually the streets were deserted as the storm increased in fury; but
the Yule logs were piled high, the curtains drawn, and every house,
_save one_, in the handsome street to which my story leads me, was all
aglow, all ablaze with light.

In a lull of the storm the sounds of music and merry-making would rise
and swell on the air, as light feet tripped merrily amid the mazes of
the dance; or a silvery peal of laughter would break easily on the
wayfarer's ear. The reflection of the light through the crimson curtains
shed a warm, rosy glow over the snowy ground, brightening the gloom of
that stormy winter's night.

But rising dark, grim, and gloomy amid those gayly lighted mansions,
stood a large, quaint building of dark-red sandstone. It stood by
itself, spectral, shadowy, and grand. No ray of light came from the
gloomy windows that seemed to be hermetically sealed. All around was
stern, black, and forbidding.

And yet--yes, from one solitary window there _did_ stream a long, thin
line of light. But even this did not look bright and cheerful like the
rest; it had a cold, yellowish glare, making the utter blackness of the
rest of the mansion blacker still by contrast.

The room from which the light issued was high and lofty. The uncarpeted
floor was of black polished oak, as also were the wainscoting and
mantel. The walls were covered with landscape paper, representing the
hideous Dance of Death, in all its variety of frightful forms. The high
windows were hung with heavy green damask, now black with dirt and age.
A large circular table of black marble stood in one shadowy corner, and
a dark, hard sofa, so long and black that it resembled a coffin, stood
in the other.

A smoldering sea-coal fire, the only cheerful thing in that gloomy room,
struggled for life in the wide, yawning chimney. Now it would die away,
enveloping the apartment in gloom, and anon flame fitfully up, until the
ghostly shadows on the wall would seem like a train of ghastly specters
flitting by in the darkness. The elm trees in front of the house trailed
their long arms against the window with a sound inexpressibly dreary;
and the driving hail beat clamorously, as if for admittance.

On either side of the fire-place stood two large easy-chairs, cushioned
with deep crimson velvet. In these, facing each other, sat two
persons--a man and a woman--the only occupants of the room.

The woman was tall, straight, and stiff, and seemingly about fifty years
of age. Her dress was a rustling black satin, with a small crape
handkerchief fastened on her bosom with a magnificent diamond pin. Her
hands, still small and white, were flashing with jewels as they lay
quietly folded in her lap. A widow's cap rested on her head, which was
alternately streaked with gray and jet. But her face--so stern, so
rigid, no one could look upon it without a feeling of fear. The lips--so
thin that she seemed to have no lips at all--were compressed with a look
of unswerving determination. Her forehead was low and retreating, with
thick black eyebrows meeting across the long, sharp nose, with a look at
once haughty and sinister. And from under those midnight brows glittered
and gleamed a pair of eyes so small, so sharp and keen--with such a look
of cold, searching, _steely_ brightness--that the boldest gaze might
well quail before them. On that grim, hard face no trace of womanly
feeling seemed ever to have lingered--all was stern, harsh, and
freezingly cold. She sat rigidly erect in her chair, with her
needle-like eyes riveted immovably on the face of her companion, who
shifted with evident uneasiness beneath her uncompromising stare.

He was a man of forty, or thereabouts, so small of stature that,
standing side by side, he could scarcely have reached the woman's
shoulder. But, notwithstanding his diminutive size, his limbs were
disproportionately large for his body, giving him the appearance of
being all legs and arms. His little, round bullet-head was set on a
prodigiously thick, bull-like neck; and his hair, short, and bristling
up over his head, gave him very much the look of the sun, as pictured in
the almanacs.

This prepossessing gentleman was arrayed in an immaculate suit of black,
with a spotless white dickey, bristling with starch and dignity, and a
most excruciating cravat. Half a dozen rings garnished his claw-like
hands, and a prodigious quantity of watch-chain dangled from his vest.
The worthy twain were engaged in deep and earnest conversation.

"Well, doctor," said the lady, in a cold, measured tone, that was
evidently habitual, "no doubt you are wondering why I sent for you in
such haste to-night."

"I never wonder, madam," said the doctor, in a pompous tone--which,
considering his size, was quite imposing. "No doubt you have some
excellent reason for sending for me, which, if necessary for me to know,
you will explain."

"You are right, doctor," said the lady, with a grim sort of smile. "I
_have_ an excellent reason for sending for you. You are fond of money, I
know."

"Why, madam, although it is the root of all evil----"

"Tush, man! There is no need for Satan to quote Scripture just now," she
interrupted with a sneer. "Say, doctor, what would you do to earn five
hundred dollars to-night?"

"Five hundred dollars?" said the doctor, his small eyes sparkling, while
a gleam of satisfaction lighted up his withered face.

"Yes," said the lady, "and if well done, I may double the sum. What
would you do for such a price?"

"Rather ask me what I would _not_ do."

"Well, the job is an easy one. 'Tis but to----"

She paused, and fixed her eyes on his face with such a wild sort of
gleam that, involuntarily, he quailed before her.

"Pray go on, madam. I'm all attention," he said, almost fearing to break
the dismal silence. "'Tis but to--_what_?"

"Make away with--a woman and child!"

"Murder them?" said the doctor, involuntarily recoiling.

"Do not use that word!" she said, sharply. "Coward! do you really blanch
and draw back! Methought one of your profession would not hesitate to
send a patient to heaven."

"But, madam," said the startled doctor, "you know the penalty which the
law awards for murder."

"Oh, I perceive," said the woman, scornfully, "it is not the crime you
are thinking of, but your own precious neck. Fear not, my good friend;
there is no danger of its ever being discovered."

"But, my _dear_ madam," said the doctor, glancing uneasily at the stern,
bitter face before him, "I have not the nerve, the strength, nor
the----"

"_Courage!_" she broke in, passionately. "Oh, craven--weak,
chicken-hearted, miserable craven! Go, then--leave me, and I will do it
myself. You dare not betray me--you _could_ not without bringing your
neck to the halter--so I fear you not. Oh, coward! coward! why did not
heaven make _me_ a man?"

In her fierce outburst of passion she arose to her feet, and her tall
figure loomed up like some unnaturally large, dark shadow. The man
quailed in fear before her.

"Go!" she said, fiercely, pointing to the door, "You have refused to
_share my crime_. Go! poor cowardly poltroon! but remember, Madge
Oranmore never forgives nor forgets!"

"But, my dear Mrs. Oranmore, just listen to me one moment," said the
doctor, alarmed by this threat. "I have not refused, I only objected. If
you will have the goodness to explain--to tell me what I must do, I
will--see about it."

"See about it!" hastily interrupted the lady. "You _can_ do it--it is in
your power; and yes, or no, must be your answer, immediately."

"But----"

"No buts, sir. I will not have them. If you answer yes, one thousand
dollars and my future patronage shall be yours. If you say no, yonder is
the door; and once you have crossed the threshold, beware! Now, Doctor
Wiseman, I await your reply."

She seated herself again in her chair; and, folding her hands in her
lap, fixed her hawk-like eyes on his face, with her keen, searching
gaze. His eyes were bent in troubled thought on the floor. Not that the
crime appalled him; but if detected--_that_ was the rub. Doctor Wiseman
was, as his name implies, a man of sense, with an exceedingly
accommodating conscience, that would stretch _ad libitum_, and never
troubled him with any such nonsense as remorse. But if it were
discovered! With rather unpleasant vividness, the vision of a hangman
and halter arose before him, and he involuntarily loosened his cravat.
Still, one thousand dollars _were_ tempting. Doctor Nicholas Wiseman had
never been so perplexed in his life.

"Well, doctor, well," impatiently broke in the lady, "have you
decided--_yes_ or _no_?"

"Yes," said the doctor, driven to desperation by her sneering tone.

"'Tis well," she replied, with a mocking smile, "I knew you were too
sensible a man to refuse. After all, 'tis but a moment's work, and all
is over."

"Will you be good enough to give me the explanation now, madam?" said
the doctor, almost shuddering at the cold, unfeeling tone in which she
spoke.

"Certainly. You are aware, doctor, that when I married my late husband,
Mr. Oranmore, he was a widower with one son, then three years old."

"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,