Sharing Her Crime Part 46

There was a moment's silence; then Lizzie raised her head and surveyed him from head to foot, her face sparkling with pride and admiration.

"How tall you have grown! and how handsome you are!--handsome enough for a king, I think, Louis!" she said, delightedly.

"Are kings handsomer than other people, my dear mother?" he said, with a smile.

"Why, I suppose so; I never saw one. You are the very image of your poor dead father, too! Dear me! what an age it seems since we parted last!"

said Lizzie, sinking back in her seat, with a sigh.

"I am sorry to find you so ill, mother," said Louis, gazing sadly into her thin, pale face, from which the bright glow was fast fading.

"Oh, I am always worse in the spring than at any other time. In a month or two I will be quite a different-looking individual," said Lizzie, hopefully.

An hour pa.s.sed away, and then there came a tap at the door. Louis arose and opened it, and beheld Gipsy.

"Well, Louis, if you're done talking to your mother, you'd better come down and see Guardy. He's just woke up, but he doesn't know yet you've come," said Gipsy.

Louis went down stairs, taking half the staircase at a bound in his haste. Pushing open the parlor door, he unceremoniously entered the presence of the squire, who, after his old habit, lay in a lounging chair, with his feet stretched upon another, smoking his pipe with the benign air of a man at peace with himself and the rest of mankind.

At the abrupt entrance of Louis he looked up with a start, and muttered something suspiciously like an oath at seeing a tall, dark foreigner--as he supposed him to be--standing before him.

"Eh? who the deuce--I beg your pardon, sir, sit down," said the squire, staring with all his eyes.

"Do you not know me, my dear grandfather?" said Louis, advancing with extended hand.

"Why! Lord bless me, if it is not Louis Oranmore," said the squire, jumping up, "with as much hair on his face as a chimpanzee monkey has on its body. Bless my heart! this _is_ a surprise! When did you get home?

Eh, when did you come?"

"About an hour ago, sir."

"And you're Louis? Well, well! Why, you weren't as high as that when you left," holding his hand about three inches from the ground, "and here you come back as tall as a lamp-post, with mustache enough for a shoe-brush, and dressed like a Spanish grandee. 'All's vanity,' as Solomon says. Well, and how did you get on with those old humbugs you went off to see--eh?"

"What old humbugs, sir?"

"Pooh! you know very well--the old masters."

"Oh! I flatter myself I have seen them to some purpose," said Louis, laughing; "but, to change the subject, I perceive you have made a few changes in the domestic economy of Sunset Hall during my absence."

"Why, yes, my boy; a few, a few! Gipsy's married to the old doctor, and didn't want to, either; but we coaxed her round and took her while she was 'in the humor,' as Solomon says."

"I trust, sir, Gipsy was not _compelled_ to marry this old man?" said Louis, with a darkening brow.

"Pooh! pshaw! of course not! Married him of her own free will--just like Gipsy, always doing what n.o.body would expect; 'women are like mules,' as Solomon says--want them to go one way, and they'll be sure to go t'other," said the squire, uneasily, evidently anxious to change the subject. "Have you seen old Wiseman and his daughter since your return?"

"I have not seen the doctor, but his daughter I have. She is a most beautiful girl," replied Louis.

"Bah! 'All that glitters is not gold,' as Solomon says. She's a proud, sullen, conceited minx, _that's_ what she is--never liked her. And mind, my young jackanapes, you mustn't go and fall in love with her. You must look out for an heiress; not a girl like her, without a cent to bless herself with."

"I thought the doctor was rich," said Louis.

"So he is; but stingy--infernally stingy! Won't give her a copper till his death!"

"Well, sir, I have no present intention of falling in love with her or any one else; but if I had, Minnette Wiseman would be just the girl for me. She is handsome, refined, intellectual, as any one can tell from her conversation. What more would a man have?"

"Stuff! moonshine! 'Fine words b.u.t.ter no parsnips,' as Solomon says. She wants the _gilt_--the money, my boy. Love in a cottage sounds very fine, but come to real life and see what it is. No, sir; I will never hear to your marrying a poor girl--never! The heir of Erliston and Oranmore must find an heiress for a wife. No matter about love, you know; money's the thing. 'When poverty comes in at the door love flies out of the window,'

as Solomon says."

CHAPTER XXVII.

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.

"Oh, her smile it seemed half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more fair Than our common jestings are; And if any painter drew her, He would paint her, unaware, With a halo round her hair."

--E. B. BROWNING.

A week had pa.s.sed away at Mount Sunset Hall since the arrival of Louis.

It had been a week of unremitting storm. Rain, rain, rain, from morning till night, and from night to morning, without ceasing.

No one could go abroad in such weather; so the arrival of Louis remained a secret in the neighborhood. It is true, Gipsy, who feared storm no more than sunshine, would have ridden forth, but preparations were being made for a grand party at the mansion, in honor of Louis' arrival, and she was forced to stay at home to a.s.sist. The whole household, with the exception of Louis and Minnette, were pressed into the business. Even Lizzie sat in the dining-room and stoned raisins, and sorted fruit, and pickles, and preserves, and looked over dresses, and laces, and muslins, and flowers, with unabated zeal. Gipsy might have been seen flying about in calico long-shorts from morning till night, entering heart and soul into the excitement. Jupiter and Mrs. Gower were sent to the city for "things," and the squire was continually blowing and bl.u.s.tering about, and over-seeing all in general.

Minnette was too indolent to have anything to do with it, and so was left to herself--and Louis. That young gentleman, seeing how busy all were, gravely offered his services in the kitchen, saying, with the a.s.sistance of Totty, he had no doubt but he would learn how to wash dishes and make himself useful in time. His offer, however, like the ma.n.u.scripts often sent to publishers, was "respectfully declined," and he and Minnette being thus thrown together, became, during the week of the storm, the best of friends--perhaps something more.

Their mornings were usually spent in the library, she embroidering while he read aloud poetry--dangerous occupation for a young and handsome man.

Then he had such long stories and anecdotes to tell her, of his travels, of his "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field;" and it _did_ flatter his vanity a little to see the work drop unnoticed from her hand, her cheek flush or pale, her breath come quick and short at his words. Their afternoons were mostly devoted to music; she seated at the piano playing and singing his favorite songs, chiefly old Scotch and German love ditties, which he liked better than Italian songs or opera music, in spite of his usually fashionable taste. And Minnette--wild, pa.s.sionate girl that she was--who can tell the tumultuous thoughts that set her heart throbbing so fast, or brought so vivid a crimson to her blooming cheek, as he bent over her, entranced--his dark, glossy locks mingling with hers? Perhaps he did not exactly make love to her, but he was too thorough a man of the world not to perceive that she loved him, as only one of her fiery, pa.s.sionate nature can love. The proud, haughty girl, who had all her life been a marble statue to others, was gentle and timid as a child before him. And he--I cannot excuse him--but though he loved her not he liked this devoted homage, this fiery heart he had tamed and won; and by his manner, almost unconsciously, led her to believe her love was returned. For the first time in her life, she was supremely happy, yielding herself, without restraint, to the intoxicating spell of his eye and voice.

Gipsy's keen eyes saw all this, too--saw it with regret and apprehension, and with instinctive dread.

"Minnette's marble heart had been changed to quivering flesh at last,"

was her soliloquy. "She _loves_ him, and (it is the old story) he _likes_ her. Heaven forbid he should trifle with her! for woe to you, Louis Oranmore, if the unchained force of Minnette's lion-pa.s.sions is aroused. Better for you you had never been born, than that the mad love of her tiger heart should turn to still madder hate. She can never make him or any one else happy; she is too fierce, too jealous, too exacting.

I wish she had never come here. I will ride over to-night or to-morrow, and bring Celeste here; when he sees _her_, I know he can never love Minnette. It may not be too late yet to remedy the evil. The love of Celeste would enn.o.ble him--raise him above the earth, that of Minnette will drag him down, down, to darkness and doom. I must prevent it."

Too late! too late! Gipsy. The evil has been done that can never be remedied. The "marble-heart" is awakened from its long repose at last.

The cards of invitation had been sent out for miles around. Early in the evening of the day appointed Gipsy ordered the carriage and drove to Valley Cottage. Miss Hagar, gray, grim, and unchanged, stiff and upright as ever, sat (as usual) knitting in the chimney-corner. A perfect bower of neatness was that little cottage--outside almost hidden in its wealth of vines and leaves--inside, bright with cleanliness, and odoriferous with the perfume of flowers that came drifting in through the white draped windows and open door. And there, sitting by the window in her neat-fitting muslin dress, bright, sunshiny, and smiling, sat sweet Celeste, the "Star of the Valley," celebrated for her beauty for miles around.

"Ah, Miss Hagar! how d'ye do? Pleasant day," said Gipsy, flashing in after her old fashion. "Celeste, throw down that sewing, and come right off to the Hall with me; I want you."

"Oh! really, my dear Gipsy, you must excuse me," smiled Celeste; "I am making this dress for poor old Widow Mayer, and must finish it to-night.

So I cannot possibly go."

"Now, that's just like you, Celeste--always sewing, or sitting up, or writing letters, or reading the Testament to some poor old unfortunate, instead of taking any pleasure for yourself. I declare you ought to be a Sister of Charity, at once! But you sha'n't work yourself to death for any one; so come along. I'll send the old lady over, to-morrow, every dress I have, sooner than want you to-night."

"But Miss Hagar, Gipsy; it is not right for me to leave her alone. She is so lonesome without me."

"No, she's not. You're glad to get rid of her; ain't you, Miss Hagar?"