Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

But she only stood before him, pale and sad, but firm and unyielding.

Long and eloquently he pleaded, passionately and vehemently he urged her, but all in vain. She listened and answered by silence and tears, but steadily and firmly refused to consent.

"Well, Celeste, will you come?" he asked, at length, after a long and earnest entreaty.

"Louis, I cannot. Not even for your sake can I do what my conscience tells me would be wrong. You say your grandfather has no right to control you in your choice of a wife. It may be so; but even in that case I would not marry you against his wishes. Perhaps I am proud and sinful; but, Louis, I could never enter a family who would not be willing to receive me. Besides, my duty is here with Miss Hagar. If I were to marry you, what would become of her, alone and childless. No, Louis, I am not so utterly selfish and ungrateful. Do not urge me further, as I see you are about to do, for my resolution is unalterable. Yielding as my nature naturally is, I can be firm at times; and in this case, nothing that you can say will alter my determination."

He stood erect before her, his fine face clouded with anger and mortification.

"This, then, is your last resolve?" he said, coldly.

"It is. Dear Louis, forgive me if I have caused you pain. Believe me, it has grieved me deeply to be obliged to speak thus," she said, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking up pleadingly, sorrowfully, in his face.

"Oh! do not trouble yourself about grieving me, fair Celeste," he said, scornfully; "the glamour has faded from my eyes, that is all. I fancied you little less than an angel. I was fool enough to believe you loved me well enough to brave even the opinion of the world for my sake. I find you are only a woman, after all, with more pride and ambition than love for me. Well, be it so. I have never sued for the favor of any one yet, and cannot begin now. Farewell, Celeste; forgive me for trespassing thus long upon your time, but it will be long before it happens again."

He turned away with a haughty bow. She saw he was angry, disappointed and deeply mortified, and tears sprang to her gentle eyes.

"Oh, Louis!" was all she could say, as sobs choked her utterance.

He turned round and stood gazing coldly upon her.

"Well, Miss Pearl," he said, calmly.

"Oh, Louis! dear Louis! forgive me! do not be angry with your Celeste. Oh, Louis! I am sorry I have offended you."

"I am not angry, Miss Pearl; only a little disappointed. You have a perfect right to reject me if you choose. My only regret is that I should have troubled you so long. I have the honor to wish you good-day."

And with the last bitter words he sprang on his horse, and in a few minutes was out of sight.

All Celeste's fortitude gave way then; and sinking on a seat, she hid her face in her hands and wept the bitterest tears she had ever shed in her life. Louis was gone, and in anger, believing her proud, artful, and fickle – perhaps he would love her no more; and her bosom heaved with convulsive sobs at the thought.

All that day and the next, and the next, Louis came not. How wearily the hours dragged on while she sat listening in vain for his coming. Taking her work, she would sit by the window commanding a view of the road, and strain her eyes in the fruitless endeavor to catch a glimpse of his tall, elegant figure. At every noise she would start convulsively, and a wild thrill would dart through her heart, in the hope that it might be his footsteps. Then sinking back disappointed, she would close her eyes to force back the gathering tears, and strive to keep down the choking sensation that would arise to her throat. And when night fell, and still he came not, unable longer to restrain herself, she would hastily seek her own chamber, and weep and sob until, utterly prostrated in mind and body, the morning would find her pale, ill, and languid, with slow step and heavy, dimmed eyes.

The morning of the fourth day came, and this suspense was growing intolerable. Breakfast had passed untasted, and suffering with a dull, throbbing headache, she was about to quit the room, when the sound of a horse's hoofs thundering down the road made her leap to her feet with a wild thrill of joy that sent new light to her, eyes and new color to her cheeks.

"He is come! he is come!" she exclaimed, rushing to the door. A cry of disappointment almost escaped her, as her eye fell on Gipsy in the act of dismounting.

"Here I am, all alive, like a bag of grasshoppers," exclaimed Gipsy, as, gathering her riding-habit in her hand, she tripped with her usual airy motion up the garden walk. "How have you been this age, Celeste? My stars! how pale you are; have you been ill?"

"I have not been very well for the past week," said Celeste, forcing a smile. "I am very glad to see you. Come in."

Gipsy entered; and having saluted Miss Hagar, threw herself into a chair, and snatching off her hat, began swinging it by the strings. Celeste took her sewing and seated herself by the window.

"Well, I declare! we have had such times up at the Hall this week," said Gipsy. "Have you heard how I captured Big Tom?"

"No," said Celeste, in surprise; whereupon Gipsy related what had occurred, ending with:

"Old Mrs. Donne is still very sick, and raves at an appalling rate about babies, and snow-storms, and all such stuff. Big Tom's in prison, rapidly recovering from his wounds, which is good news for me; for I should be sorry to think I had killed the poor wretch. I should have come over to see you sooner, only Louis is going away, and we've all been as busy as nailers."

"Going away!" echoed Celeste, growing deadly pale.

"Yes; he leaves here to-morrow morning. He is going to Italy, and will not be back for several years. But, my goodness! Celeste, what's the matter? You look as though you were going to faint!"

"It's nothing – only a sudden spasm," said Celeste, in a low, smothered voice, dropping her forehead on her hand, while her long, golden ringlets, falling like a vail over her face, hid it from view.

"The notion took him so suddenly," continued Gipsy, "that we have scarcely begun to recover from our astonishment yet. It's no use trying to coax him not to go, for he puts on that iron face of his, and says, 'the thing's decided.' Men of genius always are a queer crotchety set, they say. Thank Minerva, I'm not a genius, anyway – one of that sort's enough in any family. Minnette, too, went off the other day with the Carsons for Washington – good riddance of bad rubbish, I say. So, when Louis goes, I'll be alone in my glory, and you must come over and spend a few days with me. Won't you, Celeste?"

There was no reply. Gipsy gazed in wonder and alarm at her, as she sat still and motionless as a figure in marble.

"Celeste! Celeste! what's the matter?" she said, going over and trying to raise her head. "Are you sick, or fainting, or what?"

Celeste looked up, and Gipsy started back as she saw that white, despairing face, and wild, anguished eyes.

"You are ill, Celeste," she said, in alarm. "Your hands are like ice, and your face is cold as death. Come, let me assist you to your room."

"Thank you – I will go myself. I will be better, if let alone," said Celeste, faintly, as she arose to her feet, and, sick and giddy, tottered rather than walked from the room.

Gipsy looked after her, perplexed and anxious.

"Well, now, I'd like to know what all this is about," she muttered to herself. "Wonder if Louis' departure has anything to do with it? They've had a quarrel, I suppose, and Louis is going off in a huff. Well, it's none of my business, anyway, so I sha'n't interfere. Louis looked as if he'd like to murder me when I asked him what he was going to do without Celeste, and walked off without ever deigning to answer me. But I guess I ain't afraid of him; and if he hasn't behaved well to poor Celeste, I'll tell him a piece of my mind anyway before he goes." And the soliloquizing Gipsy left the house and rode thoughtfully homeward.

During the rest of that day and night Celeste did not leave her room. Miss Hagar grew anxious, and several times came to her door to beg admittance, but the low voice within always said:

"No, no; not now, I will be better to-morrow – only leave me alone."

And, troubled and perplexed, Miss Hagar was forced to yield. Many times she approached the chamber door to listen, but all within was still as death – not the faintest sound reached her ear.

"Has Miss Celeste left her room yet?" inquired Miss Hagar, the following morning, of her sable handmaid, Curly.

"Laws! yes, missus; she comed outen her room 'fore de sun riz dis mornin': an' I 'clare to goodness! I like to drop when I seed her. She was jes' as pale as a ghos', wid her eyes sunken right in like, an' lookin' drefful sick. She'd on her bunnit and shawl, and tole me to tell you she war agoin' out for a walk. 'Deed, she needed a walk, honey, for her face was jes' as white as dat ar table-cloff."

"Where was she going?" inquired Miss Hagar, alarmed.

"'Deed, I didn't mind to ax her, 'cause she 'peared in 'stress o' mind 'bout somefin or udder. I looked arter her, dough, an' seed her take de road down to de shore," replied Curly.

Still more perplexed and troubled by this strange and most unusual conduct on the part of Celeste, Miss Hagar seated herself at the breakfast-table, having vainly waited an hour past the usual time for the return of the young girl.

When Celeste left the cottage, it was with a mind filled with but one idea – that of seeing Louis once more before he left. But few people were abroad when she passed through the village; and descending to the beach, she seated herself behind a projecting rock, where, unseen herself, she could behold him going away.

Out on the glittering waves, dancing in the first rays of the morning sunlight, lay a schooner, rising and falling lazily on the swell. It was the vessel in which Gipsy had told her Louis was to leave St. Mark's, and Celeste gazed upon it, with that passionate, straining gaze, with which one might look on a coffin, where the one we love best is about to be laid. Hours passed on, but she heeded them not, as, seated on a low rock, with her hands clasped over her knees, she waited for his coming.

After the lapse of some time, a boat put off from the schooner, and, propelled by the strong arms of four sailors, soon touched shore. Three of them landed, and took the road leading to Mount Sunset. Half an hour passed, and they reappeared, laden with trunks and valises, and followed by Louis and Gipsy.

He seemed careless, even gay, while Gipsy wore a sad, troubled look, all unused to her. Little did either of them dream of the wild, despairing eyes watching them, as if her very life were concentrated in that agonizing gaze.

"Well, good-bye, ma belle," said Louis, with a last embrace. "You perceive my boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea, and I must away."

"Good-bye," repeated Gipsy, mechanically.

He turned away and walked toward the boat, entered it, and the seamen pushed off. Gipsy stood gazing after his tall, graceful form until the boat reached the schooner, and he ascended the deck. Then it danced away in the fresh morning breeze down the bay, until it became a mere speck in the distance, and then faded altogether from view.

Dashing away a tear, Gipsy turned to ascend the rocks, when the flutter of a muslin dress from behind a cliff caught her eye. With a vague presentiment flashing across her mind, she approached to see who it was. And there she beheld Celeste, lying cold and senseless on the sand.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"THE QUEEN OF SONG."

"Give me the boon of love —Renown is but a breath,Whose loudest echo ever floatsFrom out the halls of death.A loving eye beguiles me moreThan Fame's emblazon'd seal;And one sweet note of tenderness,Than triumph's wildest peal." – Tuckerman.

"Oranmore, my dear fellow, welcome back to Italy!" exclaimed a distinguished-looking man, as Louis – the day after his arrival in Venice – was passing through one of the picturesque streets of that "palace-crowned city."

"Ah, Lugari! happy to see you!" said Louis, extending his hand, which was cordially grasped.

"When did you arrive?" asked the Italian, as, linking his arm through that of Louis, they strolled toward the "Bridge of the Rialto."

"Only yesterday. My longings for Venice were too strong to be resisted; so I returned."

"Then you have not heard our 'Queen of Song' yet?" inquired his companion.

"No. Who is she?"

"An angel! a seraph! the loveliest woman you ever beheld! – sings like a nightingale, and has everybody raving about her!"

"Indeed! And what is the name of this paragon?"

"She is called Madame Evelini – a widow, I believe – English or American by birth. She came here as poor as Job and as proud as Lucifer. Now, she has made a fortune on the stage; but is as proud as ever. Half the men at Venice are sighing at her feet; but no icicle ever was colder than she – it is impossible to warm her into love. There was an English duke here not long ago, who – with reverence be it spoken! – had more money than brains, and actually went so far as to propose marriage; and, to the amazement of himself and everybody else, was most decidedly and emphatically rejected."

"A wonderful woman, indeed, to reject a ducal crown. When does she sing?"

"To-night. You must come with me and hear her."

"With pleasure. Look, Lugari – what a magnificent woman that is!"

"By St. Peter! it's the very woman we are speaking of – Madame Evelini herself!" exclaimed Lugari. "Come, we'll join her. I have the pleasure of her acquaintance. Take a good look at her first, and tell me if she does not justify my praises."

Louis, with some curiosity, scrutinized the lady they were approaching. She was about the middle height, with an exquisitely-proportioned figure – a small, fair, but somewhat melancholy face, shaded by a profusion of pale-brown ringlets. Her complexion was exquisitely fair, with dark-blue eyes and beautifully chiseled features. As he gazed, a strange, vague feeling, that he had seen that face somewhere before, flashed across his mind.

"Well, what do you think of her?" said Lugari, rousing him from a reverie into which he was falling.

"That she is a very lovely woman – there can be but one opinion about that."

"How old would you take her to be?"

"About twenty, or twenty-three at the most."

"Phew! she's over thirty."

"Oh, impossible!"

"Fact, sir; I had it from her own lips. Now, I'll present you; but take care of your heart, my boy – few men can resist the fascinations of the Queen of Song."

"I have a counter-charm," said Louis, with a cold smile.

"The memory of some fairer face in America, I suppose. Well, we shall see. Good-morning, Madame Evelini," he said, acknowledging that lady's salutation. "Charming day. Allow me to present to you my friend Mr. Oranmore."

From the first moment the lady's eyes had fallen on the face of Louis, she had gazed as if fascinated. Every trace of color slowly faded from her face, leaving her cold and pale as marble. As his name was uttered she reeled, as if she were faint, and grasped the arm of Lugari for support.

"Whom did you say?" she asked, in a breathless voice.

"Mr. Oranmore, a young American," replied Lugari, looking in amazement from the lady to Louis – who, quite as much amazed as himself, stood gazing upon her, lost in wonder.

"Oranmore!" she exclaimed, unheeding their looks – "Oranmore! Surely not Barry Oranmore?"

"That was my father's name," replied the astonished Louis.

A low cry broke from the white lips of the lady, as her hands flew up and covered her face. Lugari and Louis gazed in each other's faces in consternation. She dropped her hands at last, and said, in a low, hurried voice:

"Excuse this agitation, Mr. Oranmore. Can I have the pleasure of a private interview with you?"

"Assuredly, madam," said the astonished Louis.

"Well, call at my residence in the Palazzo B – , this afternoon. And now I must ask you to excuse me, gentlemen. Good-morning."

She hurried away, leaving the two young men overwhelmed with amazement.

"What the deuce does this mean?" said Lugari.

"That's more than I can tell. I'm as much in the dark as you are."

"She cannot have fallen in love with him already," said Lugari, in the musing tone of one speaking to himself.

Louis laughed.

"Hardly, I think. I cannot expect to succeed where a royal duke failed."

"There's no accounting for a woman's whims; and he's confoundedly good-looking," went on Lugari, in the same meditative tone.

"Come, Antonio, none of your nonsense," said Louis. "Come with me to my studio, and spend the morning with me. It will help to pass the time until the hour for calling on her ladyship."

They soon reached the residence of the artist. The door was opened for them by a boy of such singular beauty, that Lugari stared at him in surprise and admiration. His short, crisp, black curls fell over a brow of snowy whiteness, and his pale face looked paler in contrast with his large, melancholy, black eyes.

"Well, Isadore," said Louis kindly, "has there been any one here since?"

"No, signor," replied the boy, dropping his eyes, while a faint color rose to his cheek, as he met the penetrating gaze of the stranger.

"That will do, then. Bring wine and cigars, and leave us."

The boy did as directed, and hurried from the room.

"Handsome lad, that," said Lugari, carelessly. "Who is he?"

"Isadore something – I forget what. He is, as you say, remarkably handsome."

"He is not a Venetian?"

"No; English, I believe. I met him in Naples, friendless and nearly destitute, and took charge of him. Have a glass of wine?"

Lugari looked keenly in the face of his friend with a peculiar smile, that seemed to say: "Yes – I understand it perfectly;" but Louis, busy in lighting a cigar, did not observe him.

The morning passed rapidly away in gay conversation; and at the hour appointed, Louis sat in one of the magnificent rooms of the Palazzo B – , awaiting the entrance of the singer.

She soon made her appearance, quite bewitching in blue silk, but looking paler, he thought, than when he had seen her in the morning.

"I see you are punctual," she said, holding out her hand, with a slight smile. "Doubtless you are at your wits' end trying to account for my singular conduct."

"My only wonder is, madam, how I could have merited so great an honor."

"Ah! I knew you would say something like that," said the lady. "Insincere, like the rest of your sex. Well, you shall not be kept long in suspense. I have sent for you here to tell you my history."

"Madam!" exclaimed Louis, in surprise.

"Yes, even so. It concerns you more nearly, perhaps, than you think. Listen, now."

She leaned her head in her hand, and, for a moment, seemed lost in thought; while Louis, with eager curiosity, waited for her to begin.

"I am Irish by birth," she said, at last, looking up; "I was born in Galway. My father was a poor farmer, and I was his only child. I grew up a wild, untutored country girl; and reached the age of fifteen, knowing sorrow and trouble only by name.

"My occupation, sometimes, was watching my father's sheep on the mountain. One day, as I sat merrily singing to myself, a horseman, attracted by my voice, rode up and accosted me. I was bold and fearless, and entered into conversation with him as if I had known him all my life – told him my name and residence; and learned, in return, that he was a young American of respectable and wealthy connections, who had visited Galway to see a friend.

"From that day forth, he was constantly with me; and I soon learned to watch for his coming as I had never watched for any one before. He was rash, daring, and passionate; and, captivated by my beauty (for I was handsome then), he urged me to marry him privately, and fly with him. I had never learned to control myself in anything; and loving him with a passion that has never yet died out, I consented. I fled with him to England. There we were secretly wedded. He took me to France, where we remained almost a year – a year of bliss to me. Then he received letters demanding his immediate presence in America. He would have left me behind him, and returned for me again; but I refused to leave him; I therefore accompanied him to his native land, and a few weeks after – one stormy Christmas Eve – my child, a daughter, was born.

"I never saw it but once. The nurse must have drugged me – for I have a dim recollection of a long, long sleep, that seemed endless; and when I awoke, I found myself in a strange room with the face of a strange woman bending over me. To my wild, bewildered inquiries, she answered, that I had been very ill, and my life despaired of for several weeks; but that I was now recovering. I asked for my husband and child. She knew nothing of them, she said. I had been brought there in a carriage, after night, by a man whose features she could not recognize – he was so muffled up. He had paid her liberally for taking charge of me, and promised to return to see me in a few weeks.

"I was a child in years and wisdom, and suspected nothing. I felt angry at his desertion, and cried like the petted child I was, at his absence. The woman was very kind to me, though I saw she looked upon me with a sort of contempt, the reason of which I did not then understand. Still, she took good care of me, and in a fortnight I was as well as ever.

"One evening, I sat in my room silent and alone (for I was not permitted to go out), and crying like a spoiled baby, when the sound of a well-known voice reached my ear from the adjoining room. With a cry of joy, I sprang to my feet, rushed from the room, and fell into the arms of my husband. In my joy at meeting him, I did not perceive, at first, the change those few weeks had made in him. He was pale and haggard, and there was an unaccountable something in his manner that puzzled me. He was not less affectionate; but he seemed wild, and restless, and ill at ease.

"My first inquiry was for my child.

"'It is dead, Eveleen,' he answered, hurriedly; 'and you were so ill that it became necessary to bring you here. Now that you are better, you must leave this and come with me.'

"'And you will publicly proclaim our marriage, and we will not be separated more?' I eagerly inquired.

"He made no answer, save to urge me to make haste. In a few moments I was ready; a carriage at the door. He handed me in, then followed, and we drove rapidly away.

"'Where are we going?' I asked, as we drove along.

"'Back to Ireland; you are always wishing to return.'

"'But you will go with me, will you not?' I asked, in vague alarm.

"'Yes, yes; to be sure,' he answered, quickly. Just then, the murmur of the sea reached my ear; the carriage stopped, and my husband assisted me out.

"A boat was in waiting on the shore. We both entered, and were rowed to the vessel lying in the harbor. I reached the deck, and was conducted below to a well-furnished cabin.

"'Now, Eveleen, you look fatigued and must retire to rest. I am going on deck to join the captain for a few hours,' said my husband, as he gently kissed my brow. His voice was low and agitated, and I could see his face was deadly pale. Still, no suspicion of the truth entered my mind. I was, indeed, tired; and wearily disengaging myself from the arms that clasped me in a parting embrace, I threw myself on my bed, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. My husband turned away and went on deck, and – I never saw him more."

Her voice failed, and her lips quivered; but after a few moments she went on.

"The next morning the captain entered the cabin and handed me a letter. I opened it in surprise. A draft for five thousand dollars fell out, but I saw it not; my eyes were fixed in unspeakable horror on the dreadful words before me.

"The letter was from my husband. He told me that we were parted forever, that he had wedded another bride, and that the vessel I was in would convey me home, where he hoped I would forget him, and look upon the past year only as a dream. I read that terrible letter from beginning to end, while every word burned into my heart and brain like fire. I did not faint nor shriek; I was of too sanguine a temperament to do either; but I sat in stupefied despair; I was stunned; I could not realize what had happened. The captain brought me a newspaper, and showed me the announcement of his marriage to some great beauty and heiress – some Miss Erliston, who – "