Sharing Her Crime Part 64

"A perfect woman, n.o.bly planned, To warm, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still and bright, With something of an angel light."--WORDSWORTH.

The darkened rooms, the hushed footfalls, the whispered words, the anxious faces, betoken the presence of sickness. Like some long, dark effigy, Miss Hagar lies on her bed, prostrated in body and mind, and sick unto death. By her side sits Celeste, in a quiet dress of soft gray, her golden hair lying in bands on her fair cheeks, pale and thin with long days and nights of unceasing watching.

Never had the tender love and cherishing care of the young girl been so manifested as in the sick-room of her benefactress. Night and day, like some angel of mercy, she hovered over the couch of the invalid--ready at the slightest motion to hold the cup to her parched lips, or bathe her burning brow. Nothing could induce her to leave her side, save, when tired Nature could watch no longer, she sought her couch to catch a few moments' sleep. And Miss Hagar, with the usual fretful waywardness of illness, would have no one near her but Celeste. Gipsy had offered her services as a.s.sistant nurse, but was most promptly rejected.

"I want Celeste. Where is Celeste?" was ever the cry of the invalid.

It was the second week of Miss Hagar's illness. For days she had been raving deliriously, recognizing no one, not even Celeste. Toward the close of the tenth day she grew worse, and the doctor p.r.o.nounced the crisis of her disease at hand.

Evening was approaching, the evening of a bleak January day. The snow was falling drearily without; and the cold wind wailed and moaned around the lonely house. The fire, burning low in the grate, cast a red, fitful, uncertain light through the room, giving everything an unearthly, spectral appearance. Celeste sat by the window, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on the desolate prospect without, her mind and heart far away--far away. Her face was wet with tears, but she knew it not; sobs, long and deep, that she struggled in vain to repress, swelled her bosom. Never in her life had she felt so utterly desolate; yet a sort of awe mingled with her tears, as she felt herself in the presence of death.

Night fell in storm and darkness. In the deep gloom, nothing could be discerned save the white; unearthly light of the drifting snow. Celeste arose, drew the curtain, lit a small lamp, and was about to resume her seat, when she heard her name p.r.o.nounced by the lips of the invalid.

In a moment she was bending over her. Reason had returned to its throne; and for the first time in many weeks, Miss Hagar recognized her.

"Thank G.o.d!" exclaimed Celeste, joyfully. "Dear Miss Hagar, do you not know me?"

"Certainly, Celeste," said the invalid, pa.s.sing her hand across her eyes, as if to clear away a mist. "I have been ill, have I not?"

"Yes; but now you will recover. I feared you would never speak to me more; but now you will get well, and we will be happy together once more."

"No, child, I will never get well. Something here tells me that I am called," said Miss Hagar, solemnly, laying her hand on her heart. "I am sinking fast, and perhaps I may never see the morning dawn. I wish I could see them all before I die. Send for my brother and Archie Rivers, and little Gipsy, and Minnette! Poor Minnette! I have been harsh to her sometimes, I am afraid; and I would ask her pardon before I depart. Why don't you send for them, Celeste?"

What should she do? What ought she to say? How could she tell her what had happened?

"Dear Miss Hagar," she said, gently, "neither the doctor, nor Minnette, nor Archie, are at home. But if you will see Gipsy, I will go for her."

"All gone! all gone!" murmured the sick woman, feebly, "scattered far and wide. But you, Celeste, you have stood by me through all; you have been the staff and comfort of my old age. May G.o.d bless you for it!

Truly has he said: 'Cast thy bread upon the waters, and it shall return unto thee after many days.' But, child, have you never wondered who you were; have you never wished to know who were your parents?"

"Oh, yes, often!" replied Celeste, eagerly, "but I knew, when the proper time came, you would tell me; so I never asked."

"Well, that time has come at last. It is but little I can tell; for I neither know who you are, nor what is your name. The way you came under my care is simply this:

"One night, as I was returning home from the village, at an unusually late hour, a little girl came running out from a wretched hovel, and begged me to enter with her, for her aunty, as she called her, was dying. I went in, and found an old woman lying on a heap of rags and straw, whose end was evidently at hand. I did what I could for her; but I saw she was sinking fast. Her whole care seemed to be for her little girl, who crouched at the foot of the bed, weeping bitterly. In her anxiety for her, she seemed to forget her own sufferings.

"'What will she do when I am gone? Who will protect her and care for her in this selfish world?

"Is she an orphan?" I asked.

"'That I do not know. The child is a foundling, and no relation to me; but I love her as though she were my own child. Oh! what will become of her when I am gone?

"'And have you no clue to her birth?

"'None. One Christmas eve, about twelve years ago, my husband was caught in a storm coming from A----. As he was hurrying along by the sh.o.r.e road, he saw a sleigh in advance of him, and hastened on in hopes to overtake it. In his hurry his foot struck against something on the ground, and he stumbled and fell. As he arose, he turned to examine it; and judge of his surprise at finding it to be a young infant, wrapped in a long shawl, and sweetly sleeping. In his astonishment he stood rooted to the ground, unable to move, and the sleigh pa.s.sed on, and was soon out of sight. It was evident to him that the inmates of the sleigh had either left it there to perish, or it had accidentally fallen out. In either case, the only thing he could do was to take it home, which he did; and handed it to me, half frozen, the next morning. Our own little girl was dead; and this child seemed so like a G.o.d-send to fill her place, that I received it with joy, and resolved to adopt it, if its parents never claimed it. For months we lived in the constant dread that it would be taken from us; but years pa.s.sed on, and no inquiry was ever made concerning it. We named her Celeste; for there was something truly celestial in her sweet, angel-like face, and loving nature; and never did parents love any only child as we did her.

"'We were in very comfortable circ.u.mstances then; but when Celeste was about eight years old, my husband died; and after that everything seemed against us. We got poorer and poorer; and I was forced to take in sewing, to keep us from starving. For nearly four years I worked at this, st.i.tching away from daylight till dark; and then scarcely able to keep soul and body together. Celeste a.s.sisted me n.o.bly; but at length my health began to fail, and I resolved to leave the city. My husband's friends had formerly resided here, and I was in hopes of finding them; but when I came, I learned that they were all gone. Last night I was taken dangerously ill; and now I feel that I am dying; and my poor Celeste will be left utterly friendless and alone. She is beautiful, as you see; and what her fate may be, should she live to grow up, I dare not think of. My poor, poor Celeste!

"The deep affliction of the dying woman, and the heartfelt grief of the child, touched me deeply. I resolved that the poor orphan should not be left to struggle alone through the world. I was not rich, but still I was able to provide for her. In a few brief words I told her my resolution; and never shall I forget the fervent grat.i.tude that beamed from the dying eyes, as she listened.

"'May G.o.d forever bless you!' she exclaimed, 'and may the Father of the fatherless reward you for this!

"That night she died; and next day she was buried at the expense of the parish. I took you home; and since then you have been my sole earthly joy, Celeste; and now that I am dying, I leave you, as a legacy, your history. Perhaps some day you may yet discover your parents, if they live."

Utterly exhausted, Miss Hagar's lips ceased to move. During all the time she had been speaking, Celeste had remained as if riveted to the spot, with an emotion unnoticed by Miss Hagar. Her pale face grew whiter and whiter, her eyes were slowly dilating, her lips parted; until, when the spinster ceased, her head dropped on her hands, while she exclaimed, half aloud:

"Can I believe my ears? Then I am that other child left to perish on the beach that stormy Christmas Eve. Good heavens! Can it be that I am the child of Esther Erliston? Have I discovered who I am at last?"

"What are you saying there?" said Miss Hagar, feebly.

"Miss Hagar!" exclaimed Celeste, starting with sudden energy to her feet, "I am going to Sunset Hall, for Squire Erliston. You must repeat this story to him; it concerns him more than you are aware of, and will clear up a mystery he cannot now penetrate."

"As you please, child," said Miss Hagar, too weak to resist; "but you will not stay long?"

"No; I will be back in less than an hour," replied Celeste, whose cheeks were now flushed, and her eye burning with excitement, as she seized her cloak and hood, and hurried into the kitchen.

Curly, their only servant, was dozing in her chair by the hearth.

Rousing her up, Celeste sent her in to watch with her patient until her return.

"Remember you must not fall asleep until my return; I will be back very shortly," said the young mistress, as she tied on her mantle.

"But laws! misses, you ain't a goin' out in de storm to-night!" said Curly, opening her eyes in wonder.

"Yes, I must, for an hour or so. Secure the door, and do not leave Miss Hagar until I come back," said Celeste, as she opened the door.

A blinding drift of snow met her in the face; a fierce gust of wind pierced through her wrappings, and sent the embers on the hearth whirling redly through the room. It required all her strength to close the door after her, but she succeeded, after two or three efforts, and stepped out into the wild wintry storm.

At length St. Mark's was reached; and looking up, she could see the welcome lights of Sunset Hall streaming redly and warmly on the cold, drifting snow. Elevated above the village, its windows glowing with light, it looked the very picture of a home of ease and luxury.

The sight imparted new energy to her drooping limbs; and hurrying still more rapidly forward, in five minutes more she stood before the astonished inmates of the hall, all white with falling snow.

For a wonder Gipsy was at home. She sat gazing into the glowing fire--a sad, dreamy look on her usually bright, dark face--her little hands folded listlessly in her lap, thinking of one far away; the squire, utterly disregarding all the laws of etiquette, was smoking his pipe placidly in his arm-chair; and Mrs. Gower sat dozing in the chimney corner; Lizzie had been driven to her chamber by the choking fumes of the tobacco.

"Good Heavens! Celeste! what has happened? What has brought you out to-night in this storm?" exclaimed Gipsy, springing in dismay to her feet, as Celeste--her garments covered with snow-flakes--stood before them, like a moving frost-maiden.

The squire, equally dismayed, had taken his pipe from his mouth, and sat staring at her in utter bewilderment; while Mrs. Gower, roused from her slumbers, arose from her seat, and drew her over to the fire.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Gower, I cannot sit," said Celeste, hurriedly.

"Miss Hagar is dying, and has an important revelation to make to you, sir. It is necessary you should hear it. Will you accompany me back?"

she said, turning to the squire.

"Dying! important revelations! Lord bless me!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the squire; "won't it do to-morrow?" he added, as a wild blast made the windows rattle. "I don't care about venturing out in this storm."

"You shall go, Guardy," said Gipsy, rising impetuously, "and I'll go, too. Sit down and warm yourself, Celeste--we'll be ready in five minutes. Aunty Gower, please ring for Jupe. Pity if you can't venture out in the storm, when Celeste has walked here in it to tell you. Jupe,"

she added, as that sable individual entered, "be off and bring round the carriage, and don't be longer than five minutes, at your peril! Here, Totty! Totty! bring down my hood, and mantle, and furs; and your master's hat, gloves, and greatcoat. Quick, there!"

Utterly bewildered by the rapidity with which these orders were given, the squire, unable to resist, found himself enveloped in his fur-lined greatcoat, seated in the carriage, between the two girls, ere he found voice to protest against such summary proceedings.