Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

by May Agnes Fleming

The unhappy squire sank back in his chair; and, covering his face with his hands, writhed and groaned in mental torture.

"Your only course now," continued the merciless doctor, fixing his snake-like eyes with lurking triumph on his victim, "is to write to your grandson, confess all to him, and bring him home. He is an artist of some note, they say. Most probably, therefore, he will be able to support you—though it may seem strange to him first to work for his living."

"Work for his living!" shouted the squire, maddened by the words. "Louis Oranmore work for his living! No, sir! he has not sunk so low as that yet. If need be, he has the property of his grandmother Oranmore still remaining."

"The property of Mrs. Oranmore will not be his until her death, which may not be this ten years yet. She is hard and penurious, and would hardly give him a guinea to keep him from starving. Besides, would you, Squire Erliston, live on the bounty of Mrs. Oranmore?" said the doctor, with a sarcastic sneer.

"No, sir; I would die of starvation first!" replied the squire, almost fiercely. "But she, or some one else, might lend me the money to pay off these accursed debts."

"Not on such security as you would give, Squire Erliston," said the doctor, calmly. "In fact, my dear sir, it is useless to think of escaping your fate. Mount Sunset must be given up to satisfy these men!"

"Oh, fool! fool! fool!—miserable old fool that I was, to allow myself to be so wretchedly duped!" groaned the squire, in bitter anguish and remorse. "Better for me had I never been born, than that such disgrace should be mine in my old age! And Louis!—poor Louis! But I will never see him again. If Mount Sunset be taken from me it will break my heart. Every tree and picture about the old place is hallowed by the memory of the past; and now that I should lose it through my own blind, miserable folly! Oh! woe is me!" And, burying his great head in his hands, the unhappy old man actually sobbed outright.

Now had the hour of Dr. Wiseman's triumph come; now was the time to make his daring proposal. Awhile he sat gloating over the agonies of his victim; and then, in slow, deliberate tones, he said:

"But in all this darkness, Squire Erliston, there still remains one ray of light—one solitary hope. What would you do if I were to offer to cancel what you owe me, to pay off all your other debts, and free you once more?"

"Do!" exclaimed the squire, leaping in his excitement from the chair. "Do, did you say? I tell you, Dr. Wiseman, there is nothing under heaven I would not do. But you—you only mock me by these words."