Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

"What!" exclaimed Louis, springing fiercely to his feet. "In the name of heaven, of whom have you been talking all this time?"

"Of my husband – of your father – of Barry Oranmore!"

He staggered into his seat, horror-stricken and deadly white. There was a pause, then he said, hoarsely:

"Go on."

"I know not how that voyage passed – it is all like a dream to me. I reached Liverpool. The captain, who had been well paid, had me conveyed home; and still I lived and moved like one who lives not. I was in a stupor of despair, and months passed away before I recovered; when I did, all my childishness had passed away, and I was in heart and mind a woman.

"Time passed on. I had read in an American paper the announcement of my false husband's dreadful death. Years blunted the poignancy of my grief, and I began to tire of my aimless life. He had often told me my voice would make my fortune on the stage. Acting on this hint, I went to London, had it cultivated, and learned music. At last, after years of unremitting application, I made my debut. It was a triumph, and every fresh attempt crowned me with new laurels. I next visited France; then I came here; and here I have been ever since. To-day, when I beheld you, the very image of your father as I knew him first, I almost imagined the grave had given up its dead. Such is my story – every word true, as heaven hears me. Was I not right, when I said it concerned you more nearly than you imagined?"

"Good Heaven! And was my father such a villain?" said Louis, with a groan.

"Hush! Speak no ill of the dead. I forgave him long ago, and surely you can do so too."

"Heaven help us all! what a world we live in!" said Louis, while, with a pang of remorse, his thoughts reverted to Celeste; and he inwardly thought how similar her fate might have been, had she consented to go with him.

"And was your child really dead?" he inquired, after a pause, during which she sat with her eyes fixed sadly on the floor. "He may have deceived you in that as in other things."

"I know not," she answered; "yet I have always had a sort of presentiment that it still lives. Oh, if heaven would but permit me to behold her alive, I could die happy!"

Louis sat gazing upon her with a puzzled look.

"I know not how it is," he said, "but you remind me strangely of some one I have seen before. I recognize your face, vaguely and indistinctly, as one does faces they see in dreams. I am sure I have seen some one resembling you elsewhere."

"Only fancy, I fear," said the lady, smiling, and shaking her head. "Do you intend hearing me sing to-night?"

"Oh, decidedly! Do you think I would miss what one might make a pilgrimage round the world to hear once?"

"Flattery! flattery! I see you are like all the rest," said Madame Evelini, raising her finger reprovingly.

"Not so, madam; I never flatter. And now I regret that a previous engagement renders it necessary for me to leave you," said Louis, taking his hat and rising to leave.

"Well, I shall expect to see you soon again," she said, with an enchanting smile; and Louis, having bowed assent, left the house; and, giddy and bewildered by what he had just heard, turned in the direction of his own residence.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A STARTLING DISCOVERY

"Fixed was her look and stern her air;Back from her shoulders streamed her hair;Her figure seemed to rise more high;Her voice, Despair's wild energyHad given a tone of prophecy." – Marmion.

Weeks passed away. Louis became a daily visitor at the Palazzo B – . His growing intimacy with the beautiful "Queen of Song" was looked upon with jealous eyes by her numerous admirers; and many were the rumors circulated regarding her affection for the handsome young American. But Madame Evelini was either too proud or too indifferent to heed these reports, and visited Louis in his studio whenever she pleased, leaving the world to say of her what it listed. Louis, too, was winning fame as an artist, and, next to madame herself, was becoming one of the greatest celebrities in Venice.

"What a handsome boy that attendant of yours is!" said the lady, one day, to Louis, as Isadore quitted the room; "all who visit you vie with each other in their praises of his beauty."

"Who? Isadore? Yes, he is handsome; but a most singular youth – silent, taciturn, at times almost fierce, and at others, sullenly morose."

"He seems to have a strong antipathy to ladies, and to me in particular," said Madame Evelini; "he looks as if he wished to shut the door in my face every time I come here."

"Yes, that is another of his oddities; in fact, he is quite an unaccountable lad."

"He is very much attached to you, at all events. If he were a woman, I should say he is in love with you, and jealous of the rest of us," said madame, laughing. "As it is, it can only be accounted for by ill-nature on his part. Well, adieu!" said madame, rising to take her leave.

Louis soon had a most convincing proof of the lad's attachment. Being detained one evening, by some business, in one of the narrow courts inhabited by the lower class in Venice, he returned with a violent headache. He grew worse so rapidly, that before night he was in a high fever, raving deliriously.

A physician was sent for, who pronounced it to be a dangerous and most infectious fever, and advised his immediate removal to a hospital, where he might receive better attendance than he could in his lodgings. But Isadore positively refused to have him removed, vehemently asserting that he himself was quite competent to take care of him.

And well did he redeem his word. No mother ever nursed her sick child with more tender care than he did Louis. Night and day he was ever by his side, bathing his burning brow, or holding a cooling draught to his feverish lips. And though his pale face grew paler day after day, and his lustrous black eyes lost their brightness with his weary vigils, nothing could tempt him from that sick room. With womanly care, he arranged the pillows beneath the restless head of the invalid; drew the curtains to exclude the glaring light, totally unheeding the danger of contagion. With jealous vigilance, too, he kept out all strangers. Madame Evelini, upon hearing of her friend's illness, immediately came to see him, but she was met in the outer room by Isadore, who said, coldly:

"You cannot see him, madame; the physician has forbidden it."

"But only for one moment. I will not speak to him, or disturb him," pleaded Madame Evelini.

"No; you cannot enter. It is impossible," said Isadore, as he turned and left the room, fairly shutting the door in her face.

In his wild delirium, Louis talked incessantly of Celeste, and urged her with passionate vehemence to fly with him. At such times, the dark brow of Isadore would knit, and his eyes flash with smoldering fire beneath their lids. But if his own name was mentioned, his beautiful face would light up with such a radiant look of light and joy, that he seemed recompensed for all his weary watching and unceasing care.

At length, a naturally strong constitution, and the tender nursing of Isadore triumphed over disease, and Louis became convalescent. And then he began to realize all he owed to the boy who had been his guardian-angel during his illness.

"How can I ever repay you, Isadore?" he said, one day, as the youth hovered by his side, smoothing the tossed pillows, and arranging the bed-clothes with a skill few nurses could have surpassed.

"I wish for no return, signor. I am only too happy to have been of service to you," said the boy, dropping his eyes.

"Well, at least, you will find I am not ungrateful. Once I am well, you shall no longer remain a servant. I will place you in a fair way to make your fortune," said Louis.

"Signor, I beg you will not think of such a thing. I have no wish to leave you," said Isadore, in alarm.

"But with me you will only be an obscure servant, while it is in my power to place you in a situation to become honored and wealthy."

"I would rather remain with you."

"Strange boy! Why are you so anxious to stay with me?"

"Because – "

"Well?"

"Because I love you, Signor," said the boy, while his whole face, a moment before so pale, grew vivid crimson.

Louis looked at him in surprise.

"And what have I done for you, that you should love me so?" he asked, at length.

"Do we only love those who have conferred favors upon us, Signor?"

"Well, generally speaking, among men it is so. If you were a woman, now, it would be different," said Louis, laughing.

"Would you love me, if I were a woman?" asked the boy, in a tone so abrupt and startling, that Louis gazed at him in wonder.

"Not more than I do now. One cannot love two women at a time, as you will find out when you grow older."

"Then the signor is already in love?" asked Isadore, raising his dark eyes, now filled with dusky fire.

There was no reply. Louis turned aside restlessly, so that the boy could not see the expression of his face. And Isadore, paler than before, seated himself in silence, and fixed his burning black eyes steadily on the ground.

Louis now rapidly recovered, and in a short time was able to resume his duties. During his first interview with Madame Evelini, she related the scene that had taken place between her and Isadore.

"His motive in keeping me out was certainly other than the physician's commands," she said. "In fact, my dear Louis, I should not be surprised if your Isadore should turn out to be a female in disguise. His conduct savors so strongly of jealousy that I more than half suspect him. Some fiery Italian might have conceived a romantic passion for you, and taken this means of following you. Those hot-blooded Venetians will do such things sometimes."

The words were lightly spoken, but they set Louis to thinking. What if they were true? A number of things, trifling in themselves, rushed on his mind, tending to confirm this opinion. He started up, seized his hat, bade madame a hasty farewell, and started for home, fully resolved to discover immediately whether or not her words were true.

On entering, he found Isadore standing with folded arms, gazing with eyes almost fiendish with hate upon a picture on the easel. It was the portrait of Celeste as a child, standing as when he first beheld her caressing her wounded bird. No words can describe the look of fierce hatred with which the boy regarded it.

"Well, Isadore, you seem struck by that painting. Did you ever see a sweeter face?" asked Louis, pointing to Celeste, but keeping his eyes fixed steadily on the face of the boy.

"Do you love her?" asked Isadore, hoarsely, without looking up.

"Yes, with my whole heart and soul!" replied Louis, fervently.

"Ungrateful wretch!" cried the youth, in a voice of intense passion; and lifting his head, he disclosed a face so pale, and eyes so full of fire, that Louis started back. "Was it for this that I left home, and country, and friends, that I assumed a disguise like this to follow you? Was it for such a turn as this I risked my life for yours? Was it for words like these I cast aside my pride, and became your menial? Was it not enough for you to call on her unceasingly during your delirium – she who feared the opinion of the world more than she loved you – while I, who braved disgrace and death for your sake, was unnamed and forgotten? Look on me, most ungrateful of men," he continued, almost with a shriek. "Look at me; and say, do you yet know me?"

He dashed his cap to the ground, and with features convulsed with contending passions, stood before him. Louis looked, turned deadly pale, and exclaimed, in a voice of utter surprise:

"Merciful heaven! Minnette!"

CHAPTER XXXIV.

LIGHT IN DARKNESS

"By the strong spirit's discipline —By the fierce wrong forgiven —By all that wrings the heart of sin,Is woman won to Heaven." – Willis.

There was a moment's profound silence, during which Louis stood like one thunderstruck, and Minnette glared upon him with her fierce black eyes.

"And you have been with me all this time, Minnette, and I knew it not," said Louis, at length.

"No," she said, with a bitter laugh. "You did not know me. Had it been Celeste, do you think you would have recognized her?"

"Minnette, do not look so wildly. Good heaven! who would ever think of seeing you here, and in such disguise?" he added, still scarcely able to realize it was Minnette who stood before him.

"And it was for your sake," she replied, in a voice almost choked by contending emotions.

"For me, for me! wretch that I am!" he said, with bitter remorse. "Oh, Minnette! I am unworthy such devoted love."

Something in his manner inspired her with hope. She clasped her hands, and said, wildly:

"Only say you will not cast me off. Only say you will yet love me, and I will be a thousand-fold repaid for all I have endured for your sake. Oh, Louis! is it for the cold, prudish Celeste you reject such love as mine?"

"We cannot compel our affections, Minnette. Celeste is the only woman who can ever possess my heart; but you – you shall always be to me as a dear sister. You must throw off this disguise, and return with me home immediately. Your friends shall never know of this – they do not dream you are here; and you will soon learn to look back to this time as a troubled dream, happily past."

"Ha, ha, ha! You might take me back to America, that I might witness your marriage with Celeste. No, Louis Oranmore, never shall she enjoy such a triumph! I have hated her all my life; and I shall hate her with my last breath. Do you think I could live and survive this disgrace? You have driven me to madness; and now behold its fruits."

Her voice was hoarse with concentrated passion; her eyes burning like fire; her face ghastly and livid. As she spoke, she drew from within the doublet she wore a gleaming dagger. As the quick eye of Louis saw the motion, he sprang forward and seized her by the wrist. She struggled madly to free herself from his grasp; and in the struggle the point of the dagger entered her eye.

A torrent of blood flowed over his hands. Shriek after shriek of mortal agony broke from the lips of Minnette. The fatal dagger dropped from the hand of Louis – he staggered back, and stood for a moment paralyzed with horror. Mad with agony, Minnette fled round the room, the blood gushing from her sightless eye and covering her face, her agonizing screams making the house resound. It was an awful, ghastly, appalling spectacle. Louis stood rooted to the ground, unable to remove his gaze from the terrible sight.

Her piercing shrieks soon filled the room. Among the crowd came Lugari, who instantly guessed what had happened. A surgeon was sent for, and poor Minnette, struggling madly, was borne to her room and laid upon her bed. The surgeon, an Englishman, at length arrived; and Louis, at last restored to presence of mind, speedily expelled the gaping crowd, and shut himself up in his own room, unable to endure the harrowing sight of Minnette's agony. For upwards of two hours he trod up and down, almost maddened by the recollection of the dreadful scene just past. Bitter, indeed, was his anguish and remorse; in those two hours seemed concentrated ages of suffering.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps announced that the physician was about to take his leave. Hurriedly leaving the room, Louis followed him, scarcely daring to ask the question that hovered upon his lips.

"Tell me!" he exclaimed, vehemently, "is she – will she – "

"No, she will not die," replied the doctor, who knew what he would ask. "The wound is dangerous, but not mortal. She must be taken care of. I will have her immediately removed from here."

"Then she will recover!" said Louis, fervently, "Thank God!"

"Yes, she will recover," said the doctor, hesitatingly, "but – "

"But what?" exclaimed Louis, in vague alarm.

"She will be blind for life!"

"Great heaven!"

"Her right eye is already gone, and the other, I fear, will never more see the light. Still, you should be grateful that her life will be preserved." And the surgeon took his hat and left.

"Blind! blind for life!" murmured Louis, in horror; "a fate worse than death. Oh, Minnette! Minnette!"

The lingering glory of an Italian sunset was streaming through the open window of the room where Minnette lay. It was a plainly, but neatly furnished room, in one of the Scuole, or benevolent institutions of the city. Two months had passed since that unhappy day on which we saw her last. She lies now on the bed, the sunlight falling brightly on her wan face; that blessed sunlight she will never see more. A Sister of Mercy, with holy face and meek eyes, sits by her side, holding one of her hands in hers.

And this is Minnette; this pale, faded, sightless girl, the once beautiful, haughty, resplendent Minnette! All her beauty was gone now; the glowing crimson of high health rests no longer on those hollow, sunken cheeks; the fierce light of passion will never more flash from those dimmed orbs; from those poor, pale lips, bitter, scathing words can never more fall. But through all this outward wreck shines a calmer, holier beauty than ever rested on her face before. In the furnace, she has been purified; the fierce, passionate spirit has been subdued by grace; the lion in her nature has yielded to the Lamb that was slain; the wrung, agonized heart has ceased to struggle, and rests in peace at last.

Not without many a struggle had her wild, fierce nature yielded to the soothings of religion. Long, tempestuous, and passionate was the struggle; and when her good angel triumphed at last she came, not as a meek penitent, but as a worn, world-weary sinner, longing only for peace and rest.

She had not seen Louis during her illness. Often he came to visit her, but still her cry was: "Not yet! not yet!" Her wild, mad love was dying out of her heart, and with it her intense hatred of Celeste. Her days, now, were spent in meditation and prayer, or listening to the gentle, soothing words of Sister Beatrice.

"The sun is setting, sister, is it not?" she asked, turning her head towards the windows, as though she still could see.

"Yes; a more glorious sunset I never beheld."

"And I can never see it more; never behold the beautiful earth or sky; never see sun, or moon, or stars again!" said Minnette, in a voice low, but unspeakably sad.

"No, my child, but there is an inward vision that can never be seen with corporeal eyes. Now that those outward eyes are sealed forever, a glimpse of heaven has been bestowed upon you, to lighten the darkness of your life."

"Oh! Sister Beatrice, if I were always with you, I feel I could submit to my fate without a murmur. But when I go out into the world, this fierce nature that is within me, that is subdued but not conquered, will again arise; and I will become more passionate, selfish, and sinful than ever."

"Then why go out into the world any more? Why not enter a convent, and end your days in peace?"

"Oh, sister! if I only might," said Minnette, clasping her hands; "but I, poor, blind, and helpless, what could I do in a convent?"

"You could pray, you could be happy; if you wish to enter, your blindness shall be no obstacle," said Sister Beatrice.

At this moment a servant entered and handed the sister a note, addressed to Minnette. She opened it, and read aloud:

"Every day for a month I have called here, and you have refused to see me. Minnette, I conjure you to let me visit you; I cannot rest until I have seen you, and obtained your forgiveness.

Louis."

Minnette's pale face flushed deep crimson, and then grew whiter than before, as she said, vehemently:

"No, I will not! I will not! I cannot see him more!"

"Why not?" said Sister Beatrice. "Confess, my child, that vanity still lingers in your heart. You do not wish to see him because you think he will be shocked to find you so changed and altered. Is it not so?"

"Yes, yes!" replied Minnette, in a fainting voice.

"But this is wrong; you ought to see him. As you are desirous of taking the vail, it is but right that you should see him, and bid him farewell, and let him inform your friends when he sees them. Come, my dear child, cast out this spirit of pride, and let me admit him, if only for a moment."

There was a fierce struggle in the breast of Minnette. It was but momentary, however, as, shading her face with one hand, she said:

"Be it so; I will endure the humiliation; let him come."

Sister Beatrice pressed her lips to the brow of the invalid, and left the room. A moment later, and Louis, pale, thin, and careworn, entered. He started, and grew a shade paler, as his eyes fell on that poor, pale face, robbed of all its beauty, and with a suppressed groan, sank on his knees by the bedside.

"Minnette! Minnette!" he said, hoarsely. "Can you ever forgive me?"

The sightless eyes were turned toward him, in the vain effort to see. Alas! All was darkness. She held out one little, transparent hand, which he took between both of his.

"I have nothing to forgive," she said, meekly. "All that has happened to me I deserved. Do not grieve for me, Louis, you have nothing to reproach yourself with; it was all my own fault."

He bowed his forehead on her hand, and tears, that did honor to his generous heart, fell from his eyes.

"Tell Celeste, when you see her, how sorry I am for all my cruelty and injustice toward her. Ask her to forgive me; she is good and gentle, I feel she will do it. If I only had her pardon, I feel I could die content. And, Oh Louis! when she is happy with you, will you both sometimes think of Minnette, blind, and alone in a foreign land?"

"Oh, poor Minnette!" he said, in a choking voice.

"Do not pity me, Louis; I am very happy," but the pale lips trembled as she spoke; "happier than I ever was when I was full of life and health. Oh, Louis, when I look back and think of what I have been – so selfish, and hard-hearted, and cruel – I tremble to think what I might yet have been if God in his mercy had not sent me this affliction. And Celeste; no words can ever tell how I have wronged her. You know how I struck her, in my blind rage, and the angelic patience and forgiveness with which she afterward sought to love me, and make me happy. Oh, Louis! all her sweetness and meekness will haunt me to my dying day."

Her voice faltered, then entirely failed, and for the first time in her life the once haughty Minnette wept.

"Tears are strange visitors to these eyes," she said, with a sad smile; "there may be hope for me yet, since I can weep for the past. Louis, in a few weeks I will enter a convent, and the remainder of my life shall be spent in praying for you and Celeste, and the rest of my friends. And now you must leave me – farewell, a last farewell, dear Louis. Tell them all at home how I have learned to love them at last, and ask them to forgive poor Minnette."

He could not speak; she made a sign for him to go. Raising the thin, pale hand to his lips, and casting one long, last look on the sad, yet peaceful face of the once beautiful Minnette, he quitted the room. And thus they parted, these two, never to meet in life again.

Meantime, we must revisit St. Mark's, and witness the startling events that are bringing matters to a rapid denouement there.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE DEATH-BED CONFESSION

"Her wretched brain gave way,And she became a wreck, at random driven,Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven."

It was a bleak, stormy December evening, a week before Christmas. A bright fire was burning in the well-known parlor of Sunset Hall.

In his easy-chair, with his gouty legs, swathed in flannels, reposing on two others, lay our old friend the squire, literally "laid up by the legs." In the opposite corner was Lizzie, dozing, as usual, on her sofa; while good Mrs. Gower sat with her fat hands folded in her lap, reposing after the cares of the day. Dr. Wiseman had not yet sufficiently recovered from his wounds and bruises to go abroad, and had just retired to his room, while his affectionate spouse was enjoying herself at a grand ball in the village.

The worthy trio had sat in solemn silence for upwards of an hour, when the door was flung open, and Jupiter rushed in to announce "dat a boy commanded to see ole marster 'mediately."