She was quivering, writhing in intense anguish, crouching in her seat in a strange, distorted att.i.tude of utter despair. His eyes were full of deep pity as he gazed upon her.
"Minnette, do you forgive me?" he said, coming over and trying to raise her head.
"Oh, leave me--leave me!" was her reply, in a voice so full of intense suffering that he started.
"Only say you forgive me."
"Never! May G.o.d never forgive me if I do!" she cried, with such appalling fierceness that he quailed before her. "Leave me, I tell you!"
she cried, stamping her foot, "leave me before I go mad!"
He quitted the room: and Minnette was alone, with her own uncontrolled pa.s.sions for company. The agony of ages seemed to be concentrated into those moments; every fiber of her heart seemed tearing from its place, and lay quivering and bleeding in her bosom.
Weeks pa.s.sed. Day after day found Louis at Valley Cottage, reading and talking, or walking with Celeste. And she--there was no mistaking that quick flushing, that involuntary smile, that sudden brightening of the eye, at the sound of his footstep or the tones of his voice. Yes, the Star of the Valley was wooed and won. And all this time Minnette sat in her own room, alone, wrapped in her own gloomy thoughts as in a mantle--the same cold, impa.s.sible Minnette as ever. Yet there was a lurid lightning, a blazing fire, at times, in her eye, that might have startled any one had it been seen.
One bright moonlight night in July Louis and Celeste were wandering slowly along the rocky path leading to the cottage. Even in the moonlight could be seen the bright flush that overspread her fair face, as she listened, with drooping head and downcast eyes, to his low, love-toned words.
"And so you love me, my sweet Celeste, better than all the world?" he asked softly.
"Oh, yes!" was the answer, almost involuntarily breathed.
"And you will be my wife, Celeste?"
"Oh, Louis! Your grandfather will never consent."
"And if he does not, what matter?" cried Louis, impetuously. "I am my own master, and can marry whom I please."
"Louis--Louis! do not talk so. I would never marry you against his will."
"You would not?"
"No, certainly not. It would be wrong, you know."
"Wrong! How would it be wrong, Celeste? I am sure my mother would not object; and as for him, what right has he to interfere with my marriage?"
"Oh, Louis! you know he has a guardian"s right--a parent"s right--to interfere. Besides," she added, blushing, "we are both too young to be married. Time enough these seven years."
"Seven years!" echoed Louis, laughing; "why, that would be as bad as Jacob and--Rachel. Wasn"t that the name? Come, my dear Celeste, be reasonable. I cannot wait seven years, though very likely you could.
During all those long years of absence the remembrance of you has cheered my loneliest hours. I looked forward impatiently to the time when I might return and see my Star of the Valley again. And now that I have come, you tell me to wait seven years! Say, Celeste, may I not ask my grandfather--and if he consents, will you not be mine?"
"I don"t know--I"ll think about it," said Celeste, timidly.
"And I know how that thinking will end. Here we are at the cottage.
Good-night, my little white dove! To-morrow I will see you, and tell you his decision."
One parting embrace, and he turned away. Celeste stood watching him until he was out of sight, then turned to enter the cottage. As she did so, an iron grasp was laid on her shoulder, and a hoa.r.s.e, fierce voice cried:
"Stop!"
Celeste turned, and almost shrieked aloud, as she beheld Minnette standing like a galvanized corpse before her.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE RIVALS.
"All other pa.s.sions have their hour of thinking, And hear the voice of reason. This alone Breaks at the first suspicion into frenzy, And sweeps the soul in tempests."--SHAKESPEARE.
For a moment the rivals stood silently confronting each other--Celeste pale and trembling before that dark, pa.s.sionate glance; Minnette white and rigid, but with scorching, burning eyes.
"Minnette, what is the matter?" said Celeste, at last finding voice.
"Good heavens! you look as though you were crazed."
"Crazed!" hissed Minnette through her teeth. "You consummate little hypocrite! Your conduct, no doubt, should make me very cool and composed. Girl, I say to you, beware! Better for you you had never been born, than live to cross my path!"
Her voice was hoa.r.s.e with concentrated pa.s.sion--her small hands clenched until the nails sank into the quivering flesh. With a shudder, Celeste covered her face in her hands to shut out the scathing glance of those dark, gleaming eyes.
"Oh, Minnette!--dear Minnette!--do not look at me so. Your eyes kill me," she said, with a shiver.
"Would to Heaven they could!" fiercely exclaimed Minnette.
"Oh, Minnette! what have I done? If I have injured you, I am very sorry.
Indeed, indeed, it was unintentional. I would sooner die than have any one hate me!" said Celeste, clasping her hands imploringly.
"Injured me!" almost shrieked Minnette, clutching her arm so fiercely, that Celeste cried out with pain. "Injured me, did you say? Yes--the greatest injury one woman can ever do another you have done me. From early childhood you have crossed my path, and, under your artfully a.s.sumed vail of simplicity, won the love of the only being under heaven I ever cared for--won him with your silly smiles, your baby face, and cowardly tears; you, a poor, nameless beggar--a dependent on the bounty of others. _Hate you!_--yes, from the first moment I beheld you, I hated you with an intensity you can never dream of until you feel the full weight of my vengeance; for I tell you I will be avenged; yes, I would peril my own soul, if by so doing I could wreak still more dire revenge on your head. I tell you, you began a dangerous game when you trifled with me. I am no sickly, sentimental fool, to break my heart and die--no; I shall drag down with me all who have stood in my way, and then die, if need be, gloating over the agonies I have made them suffer.
Beware, I tell you; for no tigress, robbed of her young, can be fiercer than this newly awakened heart!"
She hurled Celeste from her, as she ceased, with such violence, that she reeled and fell; and, striking her head against a projecting stone, lay for some minutes stunned and motionless. A dark stream of blood flowed slowly from the wound; and Minnette stood gazing upon it with a fiendish smile on her beautiful face. Slowly, and with difficulty, Celeste arose--pressing her handkerchief to her face to stanch the flowing blood; and, lifting her soft, pitying eyes to the wild, vindictive face above her, she said:
"Minnette, I forgive you. You are crazed, and know not what you do.
But, oh! Minnette, you wrong me. I never intentionally injured you--never, as heaven is my witness! I have tried to love you as a sister always. Never, never--by word, or thought, or deed--have I willingly given you a moment"s pain. I would sooner cut off my right hand than offend you. Oh, Minnette! can we never be friends?"
"Friends!" repeated Minnette, with a wild laugh; "yes, when the serpent dwells with the dove; when the tiger mates with the lamb; when two jealous women love each other--then we will be friends. Perjure yourself not before me. Though an angel from heaven were to descend to plead for you, I would neither forgive you nor believe your words."
"What have I done to make you hate me so?"
"You brazen hypocrite! do you dare to ask me what you have done? _He_ did, too! A precious pair of innocents, both of you!" said Minnette, with her bitter, jeering laugh. "Little need to tell you what you have done. Did you not win the love of Louis Oranmore from me by your skillful machinations? He loved me before he saw you. You knew it; and yet, from the very first moment you beheld him, you set to work to make him hate me. Do not deny it, you barefaced, artful impostor! Did I not hear you both to-night?--and was not the demon within me prompting me to spring forward and stab you both to the heart? But my vengeance, though delayed, shall be none the less sure, and, when the time comes, woe to you and to him; for if I must perish, I shall not perish alone."
During this fierce, excited speech--every word of which had stabbed her to the heart--Celeste had staggered against a tree; and, covering her face with her hands, stood like one suddenly pierced by a sword; every word burned into her very brain like fire, as she stood like one fainting--dying. By a great effort, she crushed back the flood of her emotions; and when Minnette ceased, she lifted up her face--pale as death, but firm and earnest.
"Minnette Wiseman," she said, in a voice of gentle dignity, so unusual to her that the dark, pa.s.sionate girl gazed on her in astonishment, "as heaven hears me, I am guilty of none of these things of which you accuse me. If Louis Oranmore loved you, I knew it not, or I would not have listened to him; if he won your heart, I dreamed not of it, or he should never have won mine. I thought you loved no one but yourself. I never--never dreamed you cared for him. For all the misery he has caused us both, may heaven forgive him, as I do! If he loved you first, you have a prior claim to his heart. I will tell him so to-morrow, and never listen to him more."
She strove to speak calmly to the end; but at the last her voice died away in a low tone of utter despair.
"Bah! your acting disgusts me!" exclaimed Minnette, contemptuously. "Do you not suppose I can see through this vail with which you would blind my eyes? You will tell him to-morrow, forsooth! Yes, you will tell him I came here to abuse you, and strike you, and load you with vile epithets, and with what saint-like patience you bore them. You will represent yourself as such an injured innocent, and I as a monster of cruelty; you will tell him, when I smote you on one cheek, how you turned the other.