Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

One day, the Sisters had given a conge, and their pupils were out playing noisily in the large garden and grounds attached to the convent. Minnette, who never liked to mingle in a crowd, selected three of the boldest spirits present, and proposed they should play "Puss in the corner" by themselves.

"Oh! we can't here in this great big place," was the reply; "besides, the other girls will be sure to join us."

"Let us go into the class-room, then," said the adventurous Minnette.

"Sister Mary Stanislaus is sweeping out the class-room, and she won't let us," said one of the girls.

"Well, then, there's the refectory," persisted Minnette.

"Oh! we daren't go there! Mother Vincent would be dreadfully angry. You know the new statue is there!" said the girls, aghast at the very idea.

"Such cowards!" exclaimed Minnette, her lip curling and her eye flashing. "I wish Gipsy Gower were here. She would not be afraid."

"I ain't a coward! I'll go!" cried one, following the daring Minnette, who had already started for the forbidden room. The others, yielding to their bolder spirit, followed after, and soon were wildly romping in the refectory.

Suddenly, Minnette, in her haste, rushed against the shelf where the statue stood. Down it came, with a loud crash, shivered into a thousand fragments.

The four girls stood pale, aghast with terror. Even Minnette's heart for a moment ceased to beat, as she gazed on the broken pieces of the exquisite statue. It was but for a moment; all her presence of mind returned, as she breathlessly exclaimed:

"Sister will be here in a moment and catch us. Let us run out and join the other girls, and she'll never know who did it."

In an instant they were rushing pell-mell from the room. Minnette was the last, and as she went out her eye fell upon Celeste coming along the passage. A project for gratifying her hatred immediately flashed across her mind. Seizing Celeste by the arm she thrust her into the refectory, closed the door, and fled, just as the Sister, startled by the noise, came running to the spot.

She opened the door! There stood Celeste, pale and trembling, gazing in horror on the ruins at her feet.

An involuntary shriek from Sister Stanislaus brought all the nuns and pupils in alarm to the spot. Celeste had entered the forbidden room – had, by some accident, broken the beautiful and costly statue; that was a fact self-evident to all. She did not attempt to deny it – her trembling lips could frame no words, while the real culprits stood boldly by, silent and unsuspected.

Celeste was led away to appear before "Mother Vincent," and answer the heavy charge brought against her. She well knew how it all happened, and could very easily have cleared herself; but she had just been reading a lecture on humility and self-denial, and heroically resolved to bear the blame sooner than charge Minnette. "Minnette will hate me worse than ever if I tell," she thought; "and I must try and get her to like me. Besides, I deserve punishment, for I felt dreadfully bad and naughty, when she made the girls laugh at me this morning."

So Celeste met the charge only by silence, and sobs, and tears; and Mother Vincent, leading her into the class-room, where all the girls and teachers were assembled, administered a public reproof.

"Had it been any of the other girls," she said, "she would not have felt surprised; but Celeste was such a good girl generally, she was indeed surprised and grieved. It was not for the loss of the statue she cared most – though that could scarcely be replaced – but so glaring an act of disobedience as entering the refectory could not go unpunished. Therefore, Sister Mary Joseph would lead Celeste off and leave her by herself until school was dismissed, as a warning to be more obedient in future."

And Celeste, with her fair face flushed with shame – her bosom heaving with sobs as though her gentle heart would break – was led away to the now unforbidden refectory, and left alone in her deep sorrow. The real culprits sat silent and uneasy, starting guiltily when a low, suppressed sob would now and then reach their ear. But Minnette, with her black eyes blazing with triumph, her cheeks crimson with excitement, sat bold and undaunted, proud and rejoicing in her victory.

That evening one of the girls, unable to endure the stings of conscience, went to the Mother Superior and nobly confessed the whole. The good lady listened amazed, but silent. Celeste was released, brought before her, and confronted with Minnette.

"Why did you tell this falsehood, Minnette?" said the justly indignant lady, turning to her.

"I told no falsehood, madam," she said, boldly, though her cheek glowed like fire, and her falcon eye fell beneath the keen, steady gaze of the other.

"You acted a falsehood, then, which is quite as bad," said Mother Vincent; "and I am pained beyond measure to find so artful and wicked a disposition in one so young. And you, my child," she added, drawing Celeste toward her and caressing her golden head; "why did you suffer this wrong in silence?"

"Because I deserved it, Mother; I didn't like Minnette this morning," she answered, dropping her pale face sadly.

A glance that might have killed her, it was so dazzlingly, intensely angry, shot from the lightning eyes of Minnette.

After a few brief words, both were dismissed. The sleigh stopped to take up Celeste, and Minnette walked proudly and sullenly home.

When she reached the house she found Celeste standing in the doorway, with Louis beside her, twining her golden curls over his fingers. All the evil passions in Minnette's nature were aroused at the sight. Springing upon her, fairly screaming with rage, she raised her clenched hand and struck her a blow that felled her to the ground. Then darting past, she flew like a flash up the polished oaken staircase, and locked herself in her own room; but not until the wild cry of Louis at the demoniac act reached her ear, turning her very blood to gall.

He sprang forward, and raised Celeste up. She had struck on a sharp icicle as she fell, and the golden hair clung to her face clotted with the flowing blood. Pale and senseless, like a broken lily, she lay in his arms, as, with a heart ready to burst with anguish, Louis bore her into the house and laid her on a sofa. His cry brought Miss Hagar to the spot. She stood in the doorway, and with her usual calmness surveyed the scene. Celeste lay without life or motion on the sofa, and Louis bent over her, chafing her cold hands, and calling her by every tender and endearing name.

"Some of Minnette's handiwork," she said, coming forward; "poor little white dove, that vulture would tear out your very heart if she could. But my words will come true, and some day she will find out she has a heart herself, when it is torn quivering and bleeding in strong agony from the roots."

"Oh, Miss Hagar, do you think she is dead?" cried Louis, his brave, strong heart swelling and throbbing in an agony of grief.

"No; I hope not. Ring the bell," was her answer.

Louis obeyed; and having dispatched the servant who answered it for the doctor, she proceeded to wash the blood from the wound. Doctor Wiseman came in with the utmost indifference; listened to the story, said it was "just like Minnette;" thought it ten chances to one whether she would ever recover; gave a few general directions as to how she was to be treated, and went off to sip his coffee and read the newspaper.

Louis' indignation knew no bounds.

"Leave this detestable old house," he exclaimed impetuously, to Miss Hagar; "take Celeste over to Sunset Hall, and live with us. Grandfather is rough, but kind and generous; and you and poor little Celeste will be warmly welcomed. Do come, Miss Hagar."

"No, Louis," said Miss Hagar, shaking her head. "I thank you for your kind offer; but I cannot be dependent on anybody. No; I cannot go."

"But, good heavens! Miss Hagar, will you stay and let that hawk-heart Minnette kill this poor, gentle little soul, who is more like an angel than a living child."

"No," said Miss Hagar; "there is a cottage belonging to me about half a mile from here, at a place called Little Valley. You know it, of course. Well, I shall have it furnished; and as soon as Celeste recovers, if she ever does recover, poor child, I shall go there. Thank the Lord! I'm able to support myself; and there she will be beyond the power of Minnette."

"Beyond the power of Minnette," thought Louis, as he walked homeward. "Will she ever be beyond the power of that mad girl? What can have made her hate that angelic little creature so, I wonder?"

Ah, Louis! Ten years from hence will you need to ask that question?

The indignation of all at Sunset Hall at hearing of Minnette's outrageous conduct was extreme. The squire was sure that "bedeviled tigress would never die in bed." Mrs. Gower's fat bosom swelled with indignation, and even Lizzie managed to drawl out "it was positively too bad." And immediately after hearing it Mrs. Gower ordered out the sleigh, and loading it with delicacies for the little sufferer, set out for Deep Dale, where she found her raving in the delirium of a brain fever.

Days and weeks passed ere Celeste rose from her bed, pale and weak, and frailer than ever. Minnette, with proud, cold scorn, met the reproachful glances of those around her; and never betrayed, by word or act, the slightest interest in the sufferer. Only once, when Celeste for the first time entered the parlor, supported by Louis, did she start; and the blood swept in a crimson tide to her face, dyeing her very temples fiery red. She turned aside her head; but Celeste went over, and taking her unwilling hand, said, gently:

"Dear Minnette, how glad I am to see you once more. It seems such a long time since we met. Why did you not come to see me when I was sick?"

"You had more agreeable company," said Minnette, in a low, cold voice, glaring her fierce eyes at Louis as she arose. "Excuse me," and she passed haughtily from the room.

Miss Hagar's Valley Cottage was now ready for her reception; and as soon as Celeste could bear to be removed they quitted Deep Dale. Celeste shed a few tears as she bade good-bye to the doctor and Minnette, but they were speedily turned to smiles as Louis gayly lifted her in his arms and placed her in the sleigh beside Archie. Then, seating himself on the other side of her, he shouted a merry adieu to Minnette, who seemed neither to see nor hear him as she leaned, cold and still, against the door. Miss Hagar took her seat in front with the driver; and off the whole party dashed.

As the spring advanced the roses once more bloomed upon the pale cheeks of Celeste; and the fair "Star of the Valley," as Master Louis had poetically named her, was known far and wide. Celeste had never been so happy before in her life. Every day brought Louis or Archie to the cottage, with books, flowers, or pictures, or something to present their "star" with. And as yet Celeste loved them both alike, just as she did Miss Hagar, just as she did Mrs. Gower. Though weeks and months passed away, Minnette never came near them. Sometimes Celeste went with the boys to see her; but her reception was always so cold and chilling that, fearing her visits displeased her, she at last desisted altogether.

And Minnette, strange girl that she was, lived her own life in secret. She sat in her own room, silent and alone, the livelong day; for after that eventful morning on which the statue was broken, she would go to school no more. With her chin leaning on her hand, she would sit for hours with her glittering black eyes fixed on the fire, thinking and thinking, while the doctor sat silently reading by himself, until finally Master Archie, with a jaw-splitting yawn, declared that he would go and be a Sister of Charity if they'd take him; for of all the old tombs ever he heard of, Deep Dale beat them hollow.

CHAPTER XVI.

OUR GIPSY

"Leaping spirits bright as air,Dancing heart untouched by care,Sparkling eye and laughing brow,And mirthful cheek of joyous glow."

In the spring Louis and Archie were to go to New York and enter college. The squire, who was dying by inches of the inaction at Sunset Hall, resolved to accompany them; and Lizzie, rousing herself from her indolence, also resolved to accompany them. Doctor Wiseman intended sending Minnette to boarding-school, and Miss Hagar offered to send Celeste, likewise, if she would go; but Celeste pleaded to remain and go to the Sisters; and as it happened to be just what Miss Hagar wished, she consented.

The evening before that fixed for the departure of the boys was spent by them at the Valley Cottage. Archie was in unusually boisterous spirits, and laughed till he made the house ring. Louis, on the contrary, was silent and grave, thinking sadly of leaving home and of parting with his friends.

Celeste, who always caught her tone from those around her, was one moment all smiles at one gay sally of Archie's, and the next sighing softly as her eye fell upon the grief-bowed young head of Louis. Miss Hagar sat by the fire knitting, as stiff, and solemn, and grave as usual.

"It will be a year – twelve whole months – before we all meet again," said Louis, with a sigh.

"Oh, dear!" said Celeste, her eyes filling with tears; "it will be so lonesome. It seems to me the time will never pass."

"Oh, it will pass – never fear," said Archie, in the confident tone of one who knows he is asserting a fact; "and we'll come back young collegians – decidedly fast young men —Mirabile dictu– that's Latin – and I'll marry you, sis. Oh, I forgot Gipsy."

Here Archie's face suddenly fell to a formidable length, and he heaved a sigh that would have inflated a balloon.

"Oh, if Gipsy were here it wouldn't be a bit lonesome – I mean, not so much. Minnette's going away, too," said Celeste, sadly.

"Well, you needn't care for her, I'm sure," said Archie, gruffly. "She's as sharp as a bottle of cayenne pepper, and as sour as an unripe crab-apple. For my part, I'm glad to be out of the way of her dagger-tongue."

"Oh, Archie, please don't," said Celeste, gently. "How do you know but she likes you now, after all?"

"Likes me? Oh, that's too good. Hold me, somebody, or I'll split!" exclaimed Archie, going off into an inextinguishable fit of laughter at the very idea.

Louis rose and went to the door; Celeste followed him, leaving Archie to recover from his laughter and expatiate to Miss Hagar on the pleasures and prospects he hoped to enjoy in Gotham.

It was a beautiful moonlight night. The bright May moon shed a shower of silvery glory over the cottage, and bathed them in its refulgent light.

"Oh, Louis, what is the matter?" said Celeste, laying her hand on his arm. "Are you so sorry for leaving home?"

"I don't care for that, Celeste; I am sorry to leave you."

"But it's only for a year. I will be here when you come back."

"Will you, Celeste?"

"Why, yes, Louis, of course I will."

"Oh, no, you won't, Celeste. There will be something here taller and more womanly, who will talk and act like a young lady, and whom I will call Miss Pearl; but the little, gentle Celeste will be here no longer."

"Well, won't it be the same with you?" said Celeste, with an arch smile. "Something will come back taller and more manly, who will talk and act like a young gentleman, and whom I must call Mr. Oranmore, I suppose. But the Louis who brings me pretty books, and calls me 'the Star of the Valley,' I will never see again."

"Oh, Celeste, you know better than that. Will you think of me sometimes when I am gone?"

"Oh, yes, always. What a strange question! Why, I never thought of asking you to think of me, though you are going among so many strangers, who will make you forget all your old friends."

"You know I couldn't forget any of my old friends, Celeste, much less you. I shall think of you, and Miss Hagar, and Mrs. Gower, and – yes, and poor Gipsy every day. See, I have brought you a parting gift, Celeste, for your celestial little neck."

So saying, he drew out a little gold chain and cross, and threw it over the graceful neck that bent to receive it.

"Oh, thank you, dear Louis. I shall prize your gift so much. How kind and thoughtful of you! I wish I had something to give you in return."

"One of your curls will do."

"Will it? Oh, then you shall have it."

So saying, she drew out a tiny pair of scissors and severed a long, shining ring of gold from her bright little head.

"Hallo! what's this? Exchanging true lovers' tokens, by all that's tender! Ha, ha, ha!" shouted Master Rivers, appearing suddenly, and roaring with laughter.

"Confound you!" muttered Louis, giving him a shake. "And now I must go and bid Miss Hagar good-bye. Archie, go off and bring the gig round. Celeste, stay here; I'll be with you again in a minute."

So saying, Louis entered the cottage, shook hands with the hoary spinster, who bade him be a good boy, and not bring back any city habits. Then going to the door, where Celeste still stood looking on her cross, and closing her eyes to force back the tears that were fast gathering in them, he took her in his arms and said:

"And now good-bye, little darling. Don't quite forget Louis."

"Oh, Louis," was all she could say, as she clung to his neck and sobbed on his shoulder.

He compressed his lips and resolutely unclasped her clinging arms; then pressing his lips to her fair brow, he leaped into the gig, seized the reins, and, in his excitement, dashed off, quite forgetting Archie, who had lingered to say good-bye to Celeste.

Archie rushed after him, shouting "Stop thief! stop thief!" until Louis, discovering his mistake, pulled up, and admitted that wronged and justly-indignant young gentleman.

"Now for Deep Dale, to bid good-bye to Minnette and Old Nick," said Archie, irreverently, "and then hie for Sunset Hall."

"Yes, poor Celeste," said Louis, with a sigh, evidently forgetting he had a companion; whereupon Archie again went into convulsions of laughter, kicking up his heels and snapping his fingers in an ectasy of delight. Louis found his example so contagious, that – after trying for a few moments to preserve his gravity – he, too, was forced to join in his uproarious mirth.

On their arrival at Deep Dale they found the doctor in his study. Louis bade him a formal farewell; and having learned that Minnette was in the parlor, he went down to seek her, accompanied by Archie.

She sat in her usual attitude, gazing intently out of the window at the cold moonlight. She looked up as they entered, and started violently as she perceived who were her visitors.

"Well, Minnette, we've come to bid you good-bye," said Archie, gayly, throwing his arms round her neck and imprinting a cousinly salute on her cheek. "Good-bye for twelve months, and then hie for home and a happy meeting. Louis, I leave you to make your adieux to Minnette, while I make mine to old Suse, down in the kitchen. Mind, Minnette, don't give him one of your curls, as I saw another little girl do awhile ago, unless he gives you a gold cross and chain in return for it – he gave her one." And with a mischievous laugh, Archie clattered down stairs, taking half the staircase at a bound.

She drew herself back and up; and the hand she had half extended to meet his was withdrawn, as, with a cold formal bow, she said:

"Farewell! I wish you a safe journey and a happy return."

"And nothing more? Oh, Minnette! Is it thus old friends, who have known each other from childhood, are to part? Just think, we may never meet again!"

"Do you care?" she asked, in a softened voice.

"Care! Of course I do. Won't you shake hands, Minnette! You're not half as sorry to let me go as little Celeste was."

"Oh, no; I don't lose so much. I have no books, nor flowers, nor visits, nor gold crosses to lose by your absence," she said, sarcastically – her face, that had softened for a moment, growing cold and hard at the mention of her name. "Good-bye Louis, and – I wish you all success and happiness."

The hand she extended was cold as ice. He pressed it between his, and gazed sadly into the clear, bright eyes that defiantly met his own.

"Come, Louis, don't stay there all night!" called Archie, impatiently. "Old Suse has been hugging and kissing me till I was half smothered, down there in the kitchen; and it didn't take her half the time it does you two. Come along."

"Good-bye! good-bye!" said Louis, waving his hand to Minnette, who followed him to the door; and the next moment they were dashing along at break-neck speed toward Sunset Hall.

The moonlight that night fell on Celeste, kneeling in her own little room, praying for Louis and Archie, and sobbing in unrestrained grief whenever her eye fell upon the bright gold cross —his parting gift. Appropriate gift from one who seemed destined to never lay aught but crosses upon her!

It fell upon Minnette, sitting still by the window, with a face as cold and white as the moonlight on which she gazed. She did not love Louis Oranmore; but she admired him – liked him better than any one else she knew, perhaps, because he was handsome. But she hated Celeste; and his evident preference for her kindled up the flames of jealousy in her passionate soul, until she could have killed her without remorse.

The next morning the gay party set out for New York; and in due course of time they reached that city, and put up at one of the best hotels.

"Suppose we go to the opera to-night?" said Lizzie to the squire, as she sat – all her languor gone – looking out of the window at the stream of life flowing below.

"Just as you like – it's all one to me," said the squire, with most sublime indifference.

"Then the opera be it," said Lizzie, and the opera, accordingly, it was. And a few hours later found them comfortably seated, listening to the music, and gazing on the gayly-attired people around them.

"How delightful this is!" exclaimed Lizzie, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.

"Humph! – delightful! Set of fools! 'All is vanity,' as Solomon says. Wonder who foots the bills for all this glittering and shaking toggery?" grunted the squire.

"I've heard them say that the young danseuse, 'La Petite Eaglet,' is going to dance to-night," said Louis. "Everybody's raving about her."

"Why? Is she so beautiful?" inquired Lizzie.

"No, I believe not; it's because she dances so well," replied Louis.

At this moment the curtain arose, a thunder of applause shook the house, and La Petite Eaglet herself stood before them. A little straight, lithe figure, arrayed in floating, gauzy robes of white silver tissue, and crowned with white roses – a small, dark, keen, piquant face – bright, roguish eyes, that went dancing like lightning around the house. Suddenly her eye fell on our party from St. Mark's; a slight start and a quick removal of her eyes followed. The applause grew deafening as the people hailed their favorite. She bowed. The music struck merrily up, and her tiny feet went glancing, like rain-drops, here and there. She seemed floating in air, not touching the ground, as she whirled, and flew, and skimmed like a bird in the sunshine. The squire was dizzy – absolutely dizzy – looking at her. His head was going round, spinning like a top, or like her feet, as he gazed. Lizzie and Louis were entranced, but Archie, after the first glance, sat with dilating eyes and parted lips – incredulous, amazed, bewildered – with a look of half-puzzled, half-delighted recognition on his face.

Still the little dancer whirled and pirouetted before them; and when she ceased a shout of applause thundered through the building, shaking it to its center. Flowers, wreaths, and bouquets fell in showers around her; ladies waved their handkerchiefs and clapped their little hands in the excitement of the moment. The opera-going world seemed to have gone mad. And there stood the little Eaglet, bowing to the delighted audience, the very impersonification of self-possession and grace.

Suddenly, rising as if to speak, she removed the crown of roses from her head. There was a profound, a dead silence, where lately all had been uproar. Every eye was bent in wonder – every neck was strained to see what she was about to do.

Taking one step forward, she fixed her eyes on the box occupied by the squire and his family. Every eye, as a matter of course, turned in that direction likewise. Raising the wreath, she threw it toward them, and it alighted in triumph on the brow of the squire.