Sharing Her Crime: A Novel

"And would you have me marry for wealth and social position, Celeste?" he asked, reproachfully.

"Oh! no, no! Heaven forbid! But I would not marry you against his will. We can wait – a few years will not make much difference, dear Louis. We are both young, and can afford to be patient."

"Patience! Don't talk to me of patience!" he exclaimed, passionately. "You never loved me; if you had you would not stand thus on a little point of decorum. You are your own mistress – you have no parents to whom you owe obedience; my mother is willing enough, and yet, because an old man objects to your want of money, you stand there in your cold dignity, and exhort me to be patient and wait. Celeste, I will not wait. You must come with me to Italy!"

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.