Sharing Her Crime Part 49

"I know nothing about it," coldly replied Minnette.

"And care less, I suppose," said Gipsy. "That's just the way! Even my own children treat me with disrespect. Well, never mind; perhaps the tables will turn yet."

"I am to attend you home, am I not, Celeste?" said Louis, in a low voice, as they arose from the table.

"I am sure I do not know. I suppose you may, if you wish," she replied, ingenuously.

"Oh, go, by all means," said Gipsy, who overheard them. "Anything to keep them away from Minnette," she muttered inwardly.

Accordingly, shortly after the carriage was brought round. Louis handed Celeste in, took the reins, and drove off, unconscious that Minnette, from her chamber window, was watching them, with a look that would have appalled him had he seen it.

That drive home--to what an unheard-of length was it prolonged! Had he been training his horses for a funeral, Louis could not have driven them slower. He had so many things to tell her; wild yet beautiful German legends--of the glorious skies of glorious Italy--of the vine-clad hills of sunny Spain--of gay, gorgeous Paris--and of the happy homes of "merrie England." And Celeste, lying back among the cushions, with half-closed eyes, drank in his low-toned, eloquent words--listened to the dangerous music of his voice--with a feeling unspeakably delicious, but hitherto unknown. She saw not the burning glances of his dark eyes, as they rested on her fair face, but yielded herself up to his magnetic influence without attempting to a.n.a.lyze her feelings.

They reached Valley Cottage all too soon. Louis handed her out, and entered the cottage after her.

Miss Hagar sat in her old seat, as though she had never moved from it.

"Good-morning, dear Miss Hagar," said Celeste, kissing her so affectionately that Louis inwardly wished he could become an old woman forthwith. "See--I have brought a stranger home with me."

Louis stood smiling before her. She raised her solemn, prophetic gray eyes to his face, with a long, earnest gaze.

"Louis Oranmore!" she exclaimed--"welcome home!"

He raised the withered hand she extended so respectfully to his lips that a radiant glance of grat.i.tude from the blue eyes of Celeste rewarded him.

How that morning slipped away, Louis could never tell; but seated, talking to Miss Hagar, with his eyes fixed on the rosy fingers of Celeste flying with redoubled velocity to make up for what was lost, he "took no note of time," until the little clock on the mantel struck two.

"By Jove! so it is!" exclaimed Louis, horrified at his prolonged visit.

"What will they think of me at home?"

"Stay and take dinner with us," said Miss Hagar, hospitably.

He hesitated, and glanced at Celeste.

"Pray do," she said, lifting her sunshiny face with an enchanting smile.

Inwardly rejoicing, he consented; and the long summer afternoon vanished as the morning had done--unnoticed.

"I fear your cottage is enchanted, Miss Hagar," he said, laughingly, as he at last arose to go; "I find it next to impossible to tear myself away from it. Or perhaps there is some magnet concealed that keeps people here against their will."

Miss Hagar smiled good-humoredly, and invited him to repeat his visit--an invitation, it is unnecessary to say, the young gentleman condescended to accept.

Celeste accompanied him to the door. As they pa.s.sed out, he said:

"On this very spot we parted years ago. Do you remember that parting, Celeste?"

"Yes," she said, softly, while her fair face grew crimson as she remembered how wildly she had wept and clung to his neck then.

He read what was pa.s.sing in her mind, and smiled slightly.

"Your farewell gift, that shining ring of gold, I have kept ever since, as a talisman against all evil," he said, with a slight twinge of conscience as he remembered where it was--at the bottom of one of his trunks, with some scores of other tresses, severed from other fair heads, their owners long since forgotten.

"I am glad you did not forget me during your absence," said Celeste, feeling very much confused, and not knowing very well what she was expected to reply.

"Forget you, Celeste! Who could ever do so after beholding you once?"

Then, seeing how painfully she was embarra.s.sed, he turned gayly away, saying: "Good-bye, fairest Celeste! When shall we meet again?"

"I know not. Next Sunday, at church, perhaps."

"As if I could exist so long without seeing my fair Star of the Valley!

May I not come to-morrow, Celeste?"

"Yes, if you will bring Gipsy."

"Oh, never mind Gipsy! She will most probably be 'over the hills and far away' long before I open my eyes on this mortal life in the morning.

Therefore, to-morrow will behold me once more by the side of my liege lady."

And bowing lightly, he sprang into the saddle and galloped off, followed by Celeste's eyes until he was out of sight.

The gloaming was falling when he reached Sunset Hall. He entered the parlor. It was dark and untenanted, save by a slender, black-robed figure, seated by the window, as motionless as a statue. It was Minnette--her white hands clasped tightly together, and resting on the window-sill, her forehead leaned upon them, her long black hair falling in disorder over her shoulders.

A pang of remorse shot through his heart at the sight of that despairing figure. He went over and laid his hand gently on her arm.

"Minnette!" he said, softly.

At the sound of that loved voice, at the touch of that dear hand, she started up, and, flinging back her long hair, confronted him, with such a white, haggard face, such wild, despairing eyes, that involuntarily he started back.

"Dear Minnette, what is the matter?" he said, gently taking her hand.

She wrenched it from his grasp, with a bitter cry, and sinking back into a seat, covered her face with her hands.

"Minnette, are you ill? What is the matter?" he asked, afraid to accept the answer that his own heart gave.

"The matter!" she cried, bitterly. "Oh, you may ask! _You_ do not know.

_You_ were not by my side from morning till night, whispering your wily words into my ear, until this fair, this angelic, Celeste came! _You_ do not know what it is to have led a cold, loveless life, until some one came and won all the wealth of love that had all your days lain dormant, and then cast it back as a worthless gift at your feet! _You_ do not know what it is to discover first you have a heart by its aching!

Oh, no! All this is unknown to you. 'Ill!'"

She laughed wildly.

"Minnette! Minnette! do not talk so pa.s.sionately! In the name of heaven, what have I done?"

"Done!" she repeated, springing fiercely to her feet. "No need to ask what you have done! Was not this heart marble--harder than marble--ay, or granite--till you came? Did you not read it as you would an open book? Did you not strike the rock with a more powerful wand than that of Moses, and did not all the flood of life and love spring forth at your command? You never said in so many words: 'I love you.' Oh, no--you took care not to commit yourself; but could I not read it in every glance of your eye. Yes, deny it if you will, you _did_ love me, until this fair-faced seraph--this 'stray angel,' as I heard you call her--came, and then, for the first new face, I was cast aside as worthless. I was too easy a conquest for this modern hero; and for this artful little hypocrite--for her pink cheeks, her blue eyes, and yellow hair--the heart that loves you ten thousand times more than she can ever do, is trampled under foot! But I tell you to beware, Louis Oranmore; for if I am a 'tigress,' as you often called me in my childhood, I can tear and rend in pieces all those who will cause my misery."

She looked like some beautiful fiend, in her fierce outburst of stormy pa.s.sion; her face livid, save two dark purple spots on either cheek; her eyes flaming, blazing; her lips, white; her wild black hair falling like a vail of darkness around her white face.

"Minnette--_dear_ Minnette!"--like a magic spell his low-toned words fell on her maddened spirit--"you are mistaken. I never loved you as you fancy; I admired your beauty. I might have loved you, but I well knew the fierce, jealous nature that lay smoldering in your heart, under the living coals of your pa.s.sions. Minnette, the woman I love must be gentle and _womanly_, for that means all; the fawn, not the lioness, suits me. Extremes meet, they say; and my own nature is too hot, pa.s.sionate, and fiery, ever to mate with a spirit like to itself. In Celeste, gentle, tender, and dove-like--sit still, Minnette, you _must_ hear me out." He held her down, writhing in anguish, by the force of his stronger will. "In her, I say, I find all that I would ask of a woman.

Therefore my heart was drawn toward her. Had I found the same qualities in you, I would have loved you, instead of her. And now, dear Minnette, forgive me if I have occasioned you pain; but for your own peace of mind, it was necessary that I should tell you this."