Sharing Her Crime Part 23

Mignonne was led home, and as it was too late to go farther that day the tired hors.e.m.e.n returned, silent and dispirited, homeward. The next day the search was renewed, and the driver of the mail-coach questioned concerning the little fugitive. He could throw but little light on the subject; she accompanied him as far as the city, where she paid her fare and left him. And that was all he knew.

Placards were posted up, and rewards offered; the police were put upon her track; but all in vain. And at last all hope was given up, and the lost child was resigned to her fate.

One day, about three weeks after her flight, the postman brought a letter for Mrs. Gower. One glance at the superscription, and with a cry of joy she tore it open, for it was in the light, careless hand of Gipsy. It ran as follows:

"MY DEAR, DARLING AUNTY:--I suppose you have had great times up at Sunset Hall since I made a moonlight flitting of it. I wish I had been there to see the fun. I suppose Guardy stamped and roared, and blew up Jupiter, and blessed _me_--after his old style. Well, you know, aunty, I just couldn't help it. Guardy was getting so unbearable there was no standing him, and so I'm going to take Gipsy Gower under my own especial patronage, and make a good girl of her. Don't be angry, now, aunty, because I'll take precious good care of myself--see if I don't. Tell Guardy not to make a fuss, for fear it might bring on the gout, and tell him not to keep searching for me, for if he hunts till he's black in the face he won't find me. Remember me to Aunt Liz, and Louis, and Celeste, and--and _Archie_. Tell Archie not to fall in love with anybody else; if he does he may look out for a squall from your own little GIPSY."

This characteristic letter, instead of comforting the family, plunged them into still deeper trouble on her account. Mrs. Gower wept for her darling unceasingly, and would not be comforted; Lizzie sighed and yawned, and lay on her lounge from morning till night, looking drearier than ever; and the servants went in silence and sadness about their daily business, heaving a sigh and shedding a tear over every memento that recalled poor Gipsy. Now that she was gone they found how dearly they loved her, in spite of all the sc.r.a.pes and troubles she had ever cost them.

A dull, heavy, stagnant silence hung over the mansion from morning till night. There was no more banging of doors, and flying in and out, and up and down stairs, and scolding, and shouting, and singing all in one burst, now. The squire was blue-molding--fairly "running to seed," as he mournfully expressed it--for want of his little torment.

No one missed the merry little elf more than the l.u.s.ty old squire, who sighed like a furnace, and sat undisturbed in his own arm-chair from one week's end to the other. Sometimes Louis would bring over Celeste, who had nearly wept her gentle eyes out for the loss of her friend, to comfort him, and the fair, loving little creature would nestle on a stool at his feet and lay her golden head in his lap, and go to sleep.

And the squire would caress her fair, silken curls with his great, rough hands, and pat her white, dimpling shoulders, and turn away with a half groan; for she was not Gipsy!

As for poor Archie, he took to wandering in the woods and shooting unoffending birds and rabbits, because it was Gipsy's favorite sport, and looked as doleful as though he had lost every friend in the world.

"Fall in love with any one else," indeed! Master Archie scorned the idea, and began to have sundry visions of joining the monks of La Trappe as soon as he grew old enough. This and his other threats of going to sea, of enlisting, of killing somebody, by way of relieving his spirits, kept poor Celeste trembling with fear for him from morning till night.

And in her own gentle way she would put her arms round his neck and cry on his shoulder, and beg of him not to say such naughty things, for that Gipsy would come back yet--she _knew_ that she would.

But Minnette, who didn't care a straw whether Gipsy ever came back or not, would laugh her short, deriding laugh, and advise him to become a Sister of Charity at once. And Celeste said _she_ would be one when she grew up, and then she would be always near to comfort him. And Minnette's taunts always sent poor Archie off to the woods in a more heart-broken state of mind than ever before.

CHAPTER XV.

THE "STAR OF THE VALLEY."

----"Face and figure of a child, Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her."--BROWNING.

The winter was now drawing on. The short, bleak November days had come, with their chill winds and frosty mornings. Miss Hagar looked at the slight, delicate form and pale little face of her _protegee_, and began to talk of keeping her at home, instead of sending her to school during the winter months.

Celeste listened, and never dreamed of opposing her wishes, but stole away by herself, and shed the first selfish tears that had ever fallen from her eyes in her life. It was so pleasant in school, among so many happy young faces, and with the holy, gentle-voiced Sisters of Charity, and so unspeakably lonesome at home, with nothing to do but look out of the window at gray hills and leafless trees, and listen to the dreary sighing of the wind. Therefore Celeste grieved in silence, and strove to keep back the tears when in Miss Hagar's presence, lest she should think her an ungrateful, dissatisfied little girl.

One morning, however, as Miss Hagar entered the deserted parlor, she found Celeste sitting in the chimney-corner, her face hidden in her hands, sobbing gently to herself. A little surprised at this, for the child seemed always smiling and happy before her, Miss Hagar took her on her knee, and asked what was the matter.

"Nothing," replied Celeste, though her cheek glowed crimson red, as she felt she was not speaking the truth.

"People don't cry for nothing, child!" said the aged spinster, severely.

"_What's the matter?_"

"Please, Miss Hagar, I'm so naughty, but--but--I don't want to leave school."

"Don't want to leave school? Why, child, you'd freeze to death going to school in the winter."

"But Minnette goes," pleaded Celeste.

"Minnette's not like you, little lily. She's strong and hardy, and doesn't mind the cold; it only brings living roses to her cheeks; but _you_, little whiff of down that you are, you'd blow away with the first winter breeze."

Celeste had no reply to make to this. She only hung down her head, and tried very hard to swallow a choking sensation in her throat.

At this moment Archie burst in, in his usual boisterous manner, all aglow with snow-balling Louis. Master Rivers seemed in very good condition, notwithstanding the loss of Gipsy; though I rather think he would have been induced to knock any one down who would tell him he had forgotten her.

"What! in trouble again, little sis? Who's been bothering you now? Just give me a hint, and I'll invite them not to do it again."

"Why, the little simpleton is crying because I won't let her freeze herself to death going to school all winter!" said Miss Hagar.

"Oh, that's it--is it? Dry up your tears, then, Birdie; there's 'balm in Gilead' for you. Yesterday, that good-natured old savage, Squire Erliston, hearing me tell Louis that Celeste could not go to school owing to the distance, immediately insisted that we should all use his family sleigh for the winter. Now, Miss Hagar, see how those radiant smiles chase her tears away. We'll nestle you up in the buffalo robes, and dash off to school with you every morning to the music of the jingling sleigh-bells. Eh, puss? won't it be glorious?"

"What's that?" said Minnette, entering suddenly.

"Why, Squire Erliston has given his sleigh up to p.u.s.s.y here to take her to school, and perhaps we'll take you if you're not cross, though the squire has no particular love for you."

"Thank you for nothing," said Minnette, scornfully; "but I wouldn't go if you did ask me. Before I'd be such a baby!" she added, glancing contemptuously at Celeste.

And Minnette was as good as her word, positively refusing even the stormiest mornings to go in the sleigh. Archie exhausted all his eloquence, and Celeste pleaded tearfully, offering to stay at home and let her take her place; but Minnette answered all their entreaties by a sullen "I won't." Even when Louis, the only living being to whom her high, stubborn will would bend, pleaded with her to come, she only turned away, and said, in a tone _very_ gentle for her:

"No, Louis, don't ask me; I can't go. Why should I? I'm no trembling little coward like Celeste. I _love_ the winter!--yes, twice as well as the summer! The summer is too still, and warm, and serene for me! But the winter, with its maddening winds and howling storms, and white, frosty ground and piercing cold breeze, sends the blood bounding like lightning through every vein in my body, until I fly along, scarcely touching the ground beneath me! Louis, walking alone through the drifted snow, I feel no cold; but in your warm sleigh beside _her_, my heart would feel like ice!"

"Strange, wild girl that you are! Why do you dislike Celeste so much?"

"I don't know. I never liked any one in my life--at least not more than _one_. Do _you_ like her?" she said, lifting her eyes, glancing with dusky fire, to his face.

"Like her!" he exclaimed, shaking back his short, black curls, while his full, dark eye kindled--"like that lovely little creature! that gentle little dove! that sweet little fairy! beautiful as an angel! radiant as a poet's dream! bewitching as an Eastern houri! Like her! Oh, Minnette!"

She paused for a moment, and fixed her gleaming eyes on the bright, handsome face, sparkling with boyish enthusiasm; then, without a word, turned away, and fled from his sight.

And from that moment her hatred of Celeste redoubled tenfold in its intensity. Every opportunity of wounding and insulting the sensitive heart of the gentle child was seized; but every insult was borne with patience--every taunt and sarcasm met with meek silence, that only exasperated her merciless tormentor more and more. Sometimes Celeste would feel rising in her bosom a feeling of dislike and indignation toward her persecutor; and then, filled with remorse, she would kneel in the chapel and meekly pray for a better spirit, and always rise strengthened and hopeful, to encounter her arch-enemy, with her taunting words and deriding black eyes.

One last incident, displaying forcibly their different dispositions, and I have done with the _children_, Minnette and Celeste, forever.

The Sisters had purchased a beautiful new statue of the Madonna, and placed it in the refectory until it could be properly fixed in the chapel. The children were repeatedly forbidden to enter the refectory while it was there, lest it should accidentally be broken.

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 cla.s.s-room, then," said the adventurous Minnette.

"Sister Mary Stanislaus is sweeping out the cla.s.s-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 flas.h.i.+ng. "I wish Gipsy Gower were here. _She_ would not be afraid."