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 Pussy 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 class-room, then," said the adventurous Minnette.
"Sister Mary Stanislaus is sweeping out the class-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
flashing. "I wish Gipsy Gower were here. _She_ would not be afraid."
"_I_ ain't a coward! I'll go!" cried one, following the daring Minnette,
who had already started for the forbidden room. The others, yielding to
their bolder spirit, followed after, and soon were wildly romping in the
refectory.
Suddenly, Minnette, in her haste, rushed against the shelf where the
statue stood. Down it came, with a loud crash, shivered into a thousand
fragments.
The four girls stood pale, aghast with terror. Even Minnette's heart for
a moment ceased to beat, as she gazed on the broken pieces of the
exquisite statue. It was but for a moment; all her presence of mind
returned, as she breathlessly exclaimed:
"Sister will be here in a moment and catch us. Let us run out and join
the other girls, and she'll never know who did it."
In an instant they were rushing pell-mell from the room. Minnette was
the last, and as she went out her eye fell upon Celeste coming along the
passage. A project for gratifying her hatred immediately flashed across
her mind. Seizing Celeste by the arm she thrust her into the refectory,
closed the door, and fled, just as the Sister, startled by the noise,
came running to the spot.
She opened the door! There stood Celeste, pale and trembling, gazing in
horror on the ruins at her feet.
An involuntary shriek from Sister Stanislaus brought all the nuns and
pupils in alarm to the spot. Celeste had entered the forbidden
room--had, by some accident, broken the beautiful and costly statue;
that was a fact self-evident to all. She did not attempt to deny it--her
trembling lips could frame no words, while the _real_ culprits stood
boldly by, silent and unsuspected.
Celeste was led away to appear before "Mother Vincent," and answer the
heavy charge brought against her. She well knew how it all happened, and
could very easily have cleared herself; but she had just been reading a
lecture on humility and self-denial, and heroically resolved to bear the
blame sooner than charge Minnette. "Minnette will hate me worse than
ever if I tell," she thought; "and I must try and get her to like me.
Besides, I deserve punishment, for I felt dreadfully bad and naughty,
when she made the girls laugh at me this morning."
So Celeste met the charge only by silence, and sobs, and tears; and
Mother Vincent, leading her into the class-room, where all the girls
and teachers were assembled, administered a public reproof.
"Had it been any of the other girls," she said, "she would not have felt
surprised; but Celeste was such a good girl generally, she was indeed
surprised and grieved. It was not for the loss of the statue she cared
most--though _that_ could scarcely be replaced--but so glaring an act of
disobedience as entering the refectory could not go unpunished.
Therefore, Sister Mary Joseph would lead Celeste off and leave her by
herself until school was dismissed, as a warning to be more obedient in
future."
And Celeste, with her fair face flushed with shame--her bosom heaving
with sobs as though her gentle heart would break--was led away to the
now unforbidden refectory, and left alone in her deep sorrow. The real
culprits sat silent and uneasy, starting guiltily when a low, suppressed
sob would now and then reach their ear. But Minnette, with her black
eyes blazing with triumph, her cheeks crimson with excitement, sat bold
and undaunted, proud and rejoicing in her victory.
That evening one of the girls, unable to endure the stings of
conscience, went to the Mother Superior and nobly confessed the whole.
The good lady listened amazed, but silent. Celeste was released, brought
before her, and confronted with Minnette.
"Why did you tell this falsehood, Minnette?" said the justly indignant
lady, turning to her.
"I told no falsehood, madam," she said, boldly, though her cheek glowed
like fire, and her falcon eye fell beneath the keen, steady gaze of the
other.
"You _acted_ a falsehood, then, which is quite as bad," said Mother
Vincent; "and I am pained beyond measure to find so artful and wicked a
disposition in one so young. And you, my child," she added, drawing
Celeste toward her and caressing her golden head; "why did you suffer
this wrong in silence?"
"Because I deserved it, Mother; I didn't like Minnette this morning,"
she answered, dropping her pale face sadly.
A glance that might have killed her, it was so dazzlingly, intensely
angry, shot from the lightning eyes of Minnette.
After a few brief words, both were dismissed. The sleigh stopped to take
up Celeste, and Minnette walked proudly and sullenly home.
When she reached the house she found Celeste standing in the doorway,
with Louis beside her, twining her golden curls over his fingers. All
the evil passions in Minnette's nature were aroused at the sight.
Springing upon her, fairly screaming with rage, she raised her clenched
hand and struck her a blow that felled her to the ground. Then darting
past, she flew like a flash up the polished oaken staircase, and locked
herself in her own room; but not until the wild cry of Louis at the
demoniac act reached her ear, turning her very blood to gall.
He sprang forward, and raised Celeste up. She had struck on a sharp
icicle as she fell, and the golden hair clung to her face clotted with
the flowing blood. Pale and senseless, like a broken lily, she lay in
his arms, as, with a heart ready to burst with anguish, Louis bore her
into the house and laid her on a sofa. His cry brought Miss Hagar to the
spot. She stood in the doorway, and with her usual calmness surveyed the
scene. Celeste lay without life or motion on the sofa, and Louis bent
over her, chafing her cold hands, and calling her by every tender and
endearing name.
"Some of Minnette's handiwork," she said, coming forward; "poor little
white dove, that vulture would tear out your very heart if she could.
But my words will come true, and some day she will find out she has a
heart herself, when it is torn quivering and bleeding in strong agony
from the roots."
"Oh, Miss Hagar, do you think she is dead?" cried Louis, his brave,
strong heart swelling and throbbing in an agony of grief.
"No; I hope not. Ring the bell," was her answer.
Louis obeyed; and having dispatched the servant who answered it for the
doctor, she proceeded to wash the blood from the wound. Doctor Wiseman
came in with the utmost indifference; listened to the story, said it was
"just like Minnette;" thought it ten chances to one whether she would
ever recover; gave a few general directions as to how she was to be
treated, and went off to sip his coffee and read the newspaper.
Louis' indignation knew no bounds.
"Leave this detestable old house," he exclaimed impetuously, to Miss
Hagar; "take Celeste over to Sunset Hall, and live with us. Grandfather
is rough, but kind and generous; and you and poor little Celeste will be
warmly welcomed. _Do_ come, Miss Hagar."
"No, Louis," said Miss Hagar, shaking her head. "I thank you for your
kind offer; but I cannot be dependent on anybody. No; I cannot go."
"But, good heavens! Miss Hagar, will you stay and let that hawk-heart
Minnette kill this poor, gentle little soul, who is more like an angel
than a living child."
"No," said Miss Hagar; "there is a cottage belonging to me about half a
mile from here, at a place called Little Valley. You know it, of course.
Well, I shall have it furnished; and as soon as Celeste recovers, if she
ever _does_ recover, poor child, I shall go there. Thank the Lord! I'm
able to support myself; and there she will be beyond the power of
Minnette."
"Beyond the power of Minnette," thought Louis, as he walked homeward.
"Will she _ever_ be beyond the power of that mad girl? What can have
made her hate that angelic little creature so, I wonder?"
Ah, Louis! Ten years from hence will _you_ need to ask that question?
The indignation of all at Sunset Hall at hearing of Minnette's
outrageous conduct was extreme. The squire was sure that "bedeviled
tigress would never die in bed." Mrs. Gower's fat bosom swelled with
indignation, and even Lizzie managed to drawl out "it was positively too
bad." And immediately after hearing it Mrs. Gower ordered out the
sleigh, and loading it with delicacies for the little sufferer, set out
for Deep Dale, where she found her raving in the delirium of a brain
fever.
Days and weeks passed ere Celeste rose from her bed, pale and weak, and
frailer than ever. Minnette, with proud, cold scorn, met the reproachful
glances of those around her; and never betrayed, by word or act, the
slightest interest in the sufferer. Only once, when Celeste for the
first time entered the parlor, supported by Louis, did she start; and
the blood swept in a crimson tide to her face, dyeing her very temples
fiery red. She turned aside her head; but Celeste went over, and taking
her unwilling hand, said, gently:
"Dear Minnette, how glad I am to see you once more. It seems such a long
time since we met. Why did you not come to see me when I was sick?"
"You had more agreeable company," said Minnette, in a low, cold voice,
glaring her fierce eyes at Louis as she arose. "Excuse me," and she
passed haughtily from the room.
Miss Hagar's Valley Cottage was now ready for her reception; and as soon
as Celeste could bear to be removed they quitted Deep Dale. Celeste shed
a few tears as she bade good-bye to the doctor and Minnette, but they
were speedily turned to smiles as Louis gayly lifted her in his arms and
placed her in the sleigh beside Archie. Then, seating himself on the
other side of her, he shouted a merry adieu to Minnette, who seemed
neither to see nor hear him as she leaned, cold and still, against the
door. Miss Hagar took her seat in front with the driver; and off the
whole party dashed.
As the spring advanced the roses once more bloomed upon the pale cheeks
of Celeste; and the fair "Star of the Valley," as Master Louis had
poetically named her, was known far and wide. Celeste had never been so
happy before in her life. Every day brought Louis or Archie to the
cottage, with books, flowers, or pictures, or something to present their
"star" with. And as yet Celeste loved them both alike, just as she did
Miss Hagar, just as she did Mrs. Gower. Though weeks and months passed
away, Minnette never came near them. Sometimes Celeste went with the
boys to see her; but her reception was always so cold and chilling that,
fearing her visits displeased her, she at last desisted altogether.
And Minnette, strange girl that she was, lived her own life in secret.
She sat in her own room, silent and alone, the livelong day; for after
that eventful morning on which the statue was broken, she would go to
school no more. With her chin leaning on her hand, she would sit for
hours with her glittering black eyes fixed on the fire, thinking and
thinking, while the doctor sat silently reading by himself, until
finally Master Archie, with a jaw-splitting yawn, declared that he
_would_ go and be a Sister of Charity if they'd take him; for of all the
old tombs ever he heard of, Deep Dale beat them hollow.