THE RIVALS.
"All other passions 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.
or a moment the rivals stood silently confronting each other—Celeste pale and trembling before that dark, passionate 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 hoarse with concentrated passion—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 assumed 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 woman 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, passionate 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. Faugh! do not make me despise you as well as hate you."
"You cannot despise me, Minnette; you know you cannot," said Celeste, with something like indignation in her gentle voice, as her truth-beaming eye met undauntedly the flashing orbs before her. "You know I have spoken the truth. You know in your own heart I am no hypocrite. Hate me if you will—I cannot prevent you; but you shall not despise me. I have never intentionally wronged you, and I never will. If Louis Oranmore loves you as you say, I wish you both all happiness. I shall no longer stand between you and his heart."
"Oh! wonderful heroism!" cried Minnette, in bitter mockery. "You can well afford to say you give him up, when you know he loves me no longer; when you know you have surely and unalterably won him to yourself. Well do you know this pretended self-denial of yours will elevate you a thousand times higher still in his estimation, and make him love you far more than ever before. Oh! you have learned your trade of deception well. Pity all cannot see through it as I do. Think not to deceive me as you have done so many others; I, at least, can see your shallow, selfish, cold-blooded heart."
"I will not stay to listen to your words, Minnette; they are too dreadful. Some day, perhaps, you will discover how you have wronged me. I am not deceiving you; he must give me up if what you say be true. I will even go away if you wish it—anywhere, so that you may be satisfied. I will write and tell him, and never see him more, if that will satisfy you." Her voice faltered a little, but she went on; "I will do anything—anything, Minnette, if you will only not call me such terrible things. It is fearful—horrible, to be hated so without cause."
Minnette did not speak, but glared upon her with her burning, flaming eyes. Two dark purple spots—now fading, now glowing vividly out—burned on either cheek; otherwise, no snow-wreath was ever whiter than her face. Her teeth were set hard; her hands tightly clenched; her dark brows knit, as though about to spring upon the speaker and rend her to pieces. She made one step toward her. With a piercing cry of terror, Celeste sprang away, darted through the garden gate, flew up the narrow path, burst into the cottage, closed and bolted the door, and sank, panting and almost fainting, on the ground.
"Good heavens! child, what is the matter?" asked Miss Hagar, rising, in alarm.
"Oh! save me—save me from her!" was all Celeste could utter.
"Save you from whom? Who are you speaking of? Who has frightened you so?" inquired Miss Hagar, still more astonished.
Celeste slowly rose from the ground, without speaking. Consciousness was beginning to return, but she was still stunned and bewildered.
"Merciful Father!" cried Miss Hagar, as Celeste turned toward the light, "what has happened?"
And truly she might exclaim, at beholding that deadly paleface—those wild, excited eyes—the disheveled golden hair—the blood-stained, and torn and disordered dress.
"Nothing! oh, nothing, nothing!" said Celeste, passing her hand slowly over her eyes, as if to clear away a mist, and speaking in a slow, bewildered tone.
"But, child, there is something the matter!" insisted Miss Hagar. "You look as though you were crazed, and your face is stained with blood."
"Is it? I had forgotten," said Celeste, pushing her hair vacantly off her wounded forehead. "It is nothing at all, though. I do not feel it."
"But how did it happen?"
"Oh!—why, I was frightened, and ran, and fell," said Celeste, scarcely knowing what she said.
"What was it frightened you?" pursued Miss Hagar, wondering at her strange manner.
Celeste, without reply, sank upon a seat and pressed her hands to her throbbing temples to collect her scattered thoughts. She felt sick and dizzy—unable to think and speak coherently. Her head ached with the intensity of her emotions; and her eyes felt dry and burning. Her brow was hot and feverish with such violent and unusual excitement. Her only idea was to get away—to be alone—that she might collect her wandering senses.
"Miss Hagar," she said, rising, "I cannot tell you what has happened. I must be alone to-night. To-morrow, perhaps, I will tell you all."
"Any time you please, child," said Miss Hagar, kindly. "Go to your room by all means. Good-night."
"Good-night!" said Celeste, taking her lamp and quitting the room.
She staggered as she walked. On reaching her room she set the lamp on the table, and entwined her arms above her head, which dropped heavily upon it. Unaccustomed to excitement of any kind, she felt more as if heart and brain were on fire. Loving Louis with the strong affection of her loving heart, the sudden disclosure and jealous fury of Minnette stunned and stupefied her for a time. So she lay for nearly an hour, unable to think or realize what had happened—only conscious of a dull, dreary pain at her heart. Then the mist slowly cleared away from her mental vision—the fierce words of Minnette danced in red, lurid letters before her eyes. She started to her feet, and paced her chamber wildly.
"Oh! why am I doomed to make others miserable?" she cried, wringing her hands. "Oh, Louis, Louis! why have you deceived me thus? What have I done that I should suffer such misery? But it is wrong to complain. I must not, will not murmur. I will not reproach him for what he has done, but try to forget him. May he be as happy with Minnette as I would have striven to render him! To-morrow I will see him, and return all the gifts cherished for his sake; to-morrow I will bid him a last adieu; to-morrow—but, oh! I cannot—I cannot!" she exclaimed, passionately. "I cannot see him and bid him go. Oh, Father of the fatherless! aid me in my anguish!"
She fell on her knees by the bedside, and a wild, earnest prayer broke from her tortured lips.
By degrees she grew calm; her wild excitement died away; the scorching heat left her brain, and blessed tears came to her aid. Long and bitterly she wept; long and earnestly she prayed—no longer as one without hope, but trustful and resigned, bending her meek head to the blow of the chastening rod.
She arose from her knees, pale, but calm and resigned.
"I will not see him," she murmured. "Better for us both I should never see him again! I will write—I will tell him all—and then all that is past must be forgotten. In the creature I was forgetting the Creator; for the worship of God I was substituting the worship of man; and my Heavenly Father, tempering justice with mercy, has lifted me from the gulf into which I was falling, and set me in the narrow way once more. Henceforth, no earthly idol shall fill my heart; to Him alone shall it be consecrated; and I will live on in the hope that there is yet 'balm in Gilead' for me."
It was very easy to speak thus, in the sudden reaction from despair to joy—very easy to talk in this way in the excitement of the moment, after her heart had been relieved by tears. She thought not of the weary days and nights in the future, that would seem to have no end, when her very soul would cry out in wild despair for that "earthly idol" again.
And full of her resolution, with cheeks and eyes glowing with the light of inspiration, she sat down at the table, and, drawing pen and paper before her, began to write.
A long, earnest, eloquent letter it was. She resigned him forever, bidding him be happy with Minnette, and forget and forgive her, and breathing the very soul of sisterly love and forgiveness. Page after page was filled, while her cheek flushed deeper, and her eyes grew brighter, and her pen flew on as if inspired.
There, in the holy seclusion of her chamber, in the solemn stillness of night, she made the total renunciation of him she loved best on earth, scarcely feeling now she had lost him, in the lofty exaltation of her feelings.
It was finished at last. The pen dropped from her hand, and she arose to seek for the few gifts he had ever given her. A little golden locket, containing his likeness and a lock of his hair; her betrothal-ring; and the oft-mentioned gold cross. That was all.
She opened the likeness, and through all her heroism a wild, sharp thrill of anguish pierced her heart, as she gazed on those calm, beautiful features. The sable ring of hair twined itself round her fingers as though unwilling to leave her; but resolutely she replaced it, and drew off the plain gold circlet of their betrothal, and laid them side by side. Then her cross—it had never left her neck since the night he had placed it there. All the old tide of love swelled back to her heart as she gazed upon it. It seemed like rending her very heart-strings to take it off.
"I cannot! I cannot!" was her anguished cry, as her arm dropped powerless on the table.
"You must! you must! it is your duty!" cried the stern voice of conscience; and, with trembling fingers and blanched lips, the precious token was removed and laid beside the others.
Then, sealing them up, with one last, agonizing look, such as we might bestow on the face of a dear friend about to be consigned to the grave, she sealed and directed the packet, and then threw herself on her bed and pressed her hands over her eyes to hide out the face of her dead.
But in spite of sorrow, sleep will visit the afflicted, and a bright morning sunbeam fell like a halo on her pale face, calm in sleep, and on the golden eyelashes, still wet with undried tear-drops.
That same broad July sunbeam fell on Minnette lying prone on her face in the damp pine woods, her long, black hair and dark garments dropping with the soaking dew. The dark, lonely woods had been her couch the livelong night.