Sharing Her Crime Part 55

"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 sh.o.r.e," 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sionate, straining gaze, with which one might look on a coffin, where the one we love best is about to be laid. Hours pa.s.sed 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 sh.o.r.e. Three of them landed, and took the road leading to Mount Sunset. Half an hour pa.s.sed, 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 sh.o.r.e, 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.

Das.h.i.+ng 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 flas.h.i.+ng across her mind, she approached to see who it was.

And there she beheld Celeste, lying cold and senseless on the sand.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

"THE QUEEN OF SONG."

"Give me the boon of love-- Renown is but a breath, Whose loudest echo ever floats From out the halls of death.

A loving eye beguiles me more Than 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 pa.s.sing 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."