CHAPTER XXVII.
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
"Oh, her smile it seemed half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more fair
Than our common jestings are;
And if any painter drew her,
He would paint her, unaware,
With a halo round her hair."
E. B. Browning.
Aweek had passed away at Mount Sunset Hall since the arrival of Louis.
It had been a week of unremitting storm. Rain, rain, rain, from morning till night, and from night to morning, without ceasing.
No one could go abroad in such weather; so the arrival of Louis remained a secret in the neighborhood. It is true, Gipsy, who feared storm no more than sunshine, would have ridden forth, but preparations were being made for a grand party at the mansion, in honor of Louis' arrival, and she was forced to stay at home to assist. The whole household, with the exception of Louis and Minnette, were pressed into the business. Even Lizzie sat in the dining-room and stoned raisins, and sorted fruit, and pickles, and preserves, and looked over dresses, and laces, and muslins, and flowers, with unabated zeal. Gipsy might have been seen flying about in calico long-shorts from morning till night, entering heart and soul into the excitement. Jupiter and Mrs. Gower were sent to the city for "things," and the squire was continually blowing and blustering about, and over-seeing all in general.
Minnette was too indolent to have anything to do with it, and so was left to herself – and Louis. That young gentleman, seeing how busy all were, gravely offered his services in the kitchen, saying, with the assistance of Totty, he had no doubt but he would learn how to wash dishes and make himself useful in time. His offer, however, like the manuscripts often sent to publishers, was "respectfully declined," and he and Minnette being thus thrown together, became, during the week of the storm, the best of friends – perhaps something more.
Their mornings were usually spent in the library, she embroidering while he read aloud poetry – dangerous occupation for a young and handsome man. Then he had such long stories and anecdotes to tell her, of his travels, of his "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field;" and it did flatter his vanity a little to see the work drop unnoticed from her hand, her cheek flush or pale, her breath come quick and short at his words. Their afternoons were mostly devoted to music; she seated at the piano playing and singing his favorite songs, chiefly old Scotch and German love ditties, which he liked better than Italian songs or opera music, in spite of his usually fashionable taste. And Minnette – wild, passionate girl that she was – who can tell the tumultuous thoughts that set her heart throbbing so fast, or brought so vivid a crimson to her blooming cheek, as he bent over her, entranced – his dark, glossy locks mingling with hers? Perhaps he did not exactly make love to her, but he was too thorough a man of the world not to perceive that she loved him, as only one of her fiery, passionate nature can love. The proud, haughty girl, who had all her life been a marble statue to others, was gentle and timid as a child before him. And he – I cannot excuse him – but though he loved her not he liked this devoted homage, this fiery heart he had tamed and won; and by his manner, almost unconsciously, led her to believe her love was returned. For the first time in her life, she was supremely happy, yielding herself, without restraint, to the intoxicating spell of his eye and voice.
Gipsy's keen eyes saw all this, too – saw it with regret and apprehension, and with instinctive dread.
"Minnette's marble heart had been changed to quivering flesh at last," was her soliloquy. "She loves him, and (it is the old story) he likes her. Heaven forbid he should trifle with her! for woe to you, Louis Oranmore, if the unchained force of Minnette's lion-passions is aroused. Better for you you had never been born, than that the mad love of her tiger heart should turn to still madder hate. She can never make him or any one else happy; she is too fierce, too jealous, too exacting. I wish she had never come here. I will ride over to-night or to-morrow, and bring Celeste here; when he sees her, I know he can never love Minnette. It may not be too late yet to remedy the evil. The love of Celeste would ennoble him – raise him above the earth, that of Minnette will drag him down, down, to darkness and doom. I must prevent it."
Too late! too late! Gipsy. The evil has been done that can never be remedied. The "marble-heart" is awakened from its long repose at last.
The cards of invitation had been sent out for miles around. Early in the evening of the day appointed Gipsy ordered the carriage and drove to Valley Cottage. Miss Hagar, gray, grim, and unchanged, stiff and upright as ever, sat (as usual) knitting in the chimney-corner. A perfect bower of neatness was that little cottage – outside almost hidden in its wealth of vines and leaves – inside, bright with cleanliness, and odoriferous with the perfume of flowers that came drifting in through the white draped windows and open door. And there, sitting by the window in her neat-fitting muslin dress, bright, sunshiny, and smiling, sat sweet Celeste, the "Star of the Valley," celebrated for her beauty for miles around.
"Ah, Miss Hagar! how d'ye do? Pleasant day," said Gipsy, flashing in after her old fashion. "Celeste, throw down that sewing, and come right off to the Hall with me; I want you."
"Oh! really, my dear Gipsy, you must excuse me," smiled Celeste; "I am making this dress for poor old Widow Mayer, and must finish it to-night. So I cannot possibly go."
"Now, that's just like you, Celeste – always sewing, or sitting up, or writing letters, or reading the Testament to some poor old unfortunate, instead of taking any pleasure for yourself. I declare you ought to be a Sister of Charity, at once! But you sha'n't work yourself to death for any one; so come along. I'll send the old lady over, to-morrow, every dress I have, sooner than want you to-night."
"But Miss Hagar, Gipsy; it is not right for me to leave her alone. She is so lonesome without me."
"No, she's not. You're glad to get rid of her; ain't you, Miss Hagar?"
"I should be pleased to have her go. It is right she should enjoy herself with the rest of the young folks," said Miss Hagar.
"There! you hear that? Now you go and get ready!"
"But really, dear Gipsy – "
"Now, none of your 'dear Gipsy-ing' me! I won't listen to another word! You must come; that's the whole of it," said Gipsy, seizing the work, and throwing it into a corner, and pulling the laughing Celeste by main force from the room.
"But, Gipsy, why are you so anxious for me to go with you to-night?" said Celeste, when they had reached her chamber.
"Oh, because I have my raysons for it," as little Pat Flynn says. "Now I want you to look your very prettiest to-night, Celeste. In fact, you must be perfectly irresistible."
"I am afraid you are going to play me some trick, Gipsy!" said Celeste, smiling and hesitating.
"Oh! honor bright! Come, hurry up! Put on your white muslin; you look better in it than anything else."
"Besides being the best dress I have," said Celeste, as she took it down, for the cottage maiden always dressed with the utmost plainness and simplicity.
"I'll run out and gather you some rosebuds for your hair," said Gipsy, as Celeste began to dress.
"But, indeed, Gipsy, I am not accustomed to be so gayly attired," said Celeste, anxiously.
"Nonsense! what is there gay in a few white rosebuds, I'd like to know? You shall wear them," said Gipsy, hurrying from the room.
Half an hour later and Celeste's toilet was complete. Very lovely she looked in her simple white robe, fastened at her slender waist by a blue ribbon, her shining hair of pale gold falling like a shower of sunlight over her beautifully white and rounded neck, and wreathed with moss roses. Her fair, rose-tinted face, with its deep, blue eyes, shaded by long, sunny lashes; her red, smiling lips; her softly flushed cheeks, and broad, transparent forehead, bright with youth, and goodness, and loveliness!
"Why, Celeste, you are radiant to-night – lovely, bewitching, angelic!" exclaimed Gipsy, gazing upon her in sort of rapture.
"Nonsense, dear Gipsy!" said Celeste, smiling, and blushing even at the words of the little hoyden. "Are you, too, becoming a flatterer?"
"Not I; I would scorn to be! You know I never flatter, Celeste; but you seem to have received a baptism of living beauty to-night."
Celeste very well knew Gipsy never flattered. Candor was a part of the elf's nature; so, blushing still more, she threw a light shawl over her shoulders, and entered the sitting-room. Both girls took leave of Miss Hagar, and entered the carriage, that whirled them rapidly in the direction of Mount Sunset.
"Gipsy, I know you have some design in all this?" said Celeste, as they drove along.
"Well; suppose I have?"
"Why, I shall be tempted to take it very hard indeed. Why have you brought me here, Gipsy?"
"Well, to meet a friend. There now!"
"Who is it?"
"Sha'n't tell you yet. Here we are at home."
Celeste glanced from the window, and saw the court-yard full of carriages, the hall illuminated, and throngs of people pouring in.
"Is it possible, Gipsy, this is a large party?"
"Yes; just so, my dear."
"Oh, Gipsy! it was too bad of you to entrap me in this way!" said Celeste, reproachfully.
"Fiddle! it's a great thing to go to a party, ain't it? Come, jump out, and come up to my dressing-room; I have a still greater surprise in store for you."
Celeste passed, with Gipsy, through a side door, and both ran, unobserved, up to her room. Then – after an hour or so, which it took Gipsy to dress, both descended to the saloon, where the dancing was already at its height.
Their entrance into the crowded rooms produced a decided sensation. Gipsy, blazing with jewels, moved along like a spirit of light, and Celeste, in her fair, moonlight beauty, looking like some stray angel newly dropped in their midst.
Gipsy led her guest to the upper end of the room, under a raised arch of flowers that filled the air with fragrance.
"Stay here until I come back for you," she whispered, as she turned, and disappeared among the throng.
Flitting hither and thither like a sunbeam, she paused until she discovered Louis, with Minnette leaning on his arm, calling up the smiles and blushes to her face at his all-powerful will.
"Louis! Louis! come with me! I want you a moment. You'll excuse him, Minnette, will you not?" said Gipsy.
"Oh, certainly!" said Minnette, with a radiant look, little dreaming for what purpose he was taken from her.
Passing her arm through his, Gipsy led him to where he could obtain a full view of Celeste, without being seen by her.
"Look!" she said, pointing.
He looked, started suddenly, and then stood like one transfixed, with his eyes riveted to the glorious vision before him.
She stood under the flowery canopy, robed in white, crowned with roses, leaning against a marble statue of Hebe, herself a thousand times lovelier than that exquisitely sculptured form and face. This was his ideal, found at last – this the face and figure that had haunted his dreams all his life, but had never been found before; just such an angelic creature he had striven all his life to produce on canvas, and always failed. He stood motionless, enchanted, drinking in to intoxication the bewildering draught of her beauty.
"Louis," said Gipsy, laying her hand on his arm.
He heard not, answered not; he stood gazing like one chained to the spot.
"Louis," she said in a louder tone.
Still she was unheeded,
"Louis, you provoking wretch!" she said, giving him a shake.
"Well?" he said, without removing his dazzled eyes from the vision before him.
"What do you think of her? Is she not lovely?"
"Lovely!" he repeated, rousing himself from the trance into which he had fallen. "Gipsy, she is divine. Do not praise her beauty; no words can do it justice."
"Whew! – caught already! There's love at first sight for you."
"Gipsy, who is she – that vision of light – my life-dream – that I have found at last?"
"Then you don't know her? Bless your dear, innocent heart! that's Celeste – your 'Star of the Valley,' you know!"
"Yes, yes! I recognize her now – my Star of the Valley, rightly named. Would she were mine!" he added, in a lower tone.
"Shall I present you?"
"Does she know I am here?"
"No; I didn't tell her a word about it."
"Then leave me. I will present myself."
"All right; that'll save me some trouble; and I hear somebody over there singing out for Mrs. Wiseman. So au revoir, and Cupid be with you!"
And, laughingly, Gipsy glided away, and Louis went up and stood before Celeste.
She looked up with a start, to find the handsomest man she had ever seen in her life standing before her, gazing upon her with such a look of intense admiration in his deep, dark eyes, that the blood rushed to her cheek, and the white lids dropped over the shrinking blue eyes. Another moment, and both her hands were clasped in his; while he cried, in a voice that was low, but full of passion:
"Celeste! Celeste! little sister! – do you not know me?"
"Louis!" broke from her lips, in a wild exclamation of joy.
"Yes, sweet sister, your boy-friend, Louis, home again."
"Oh, Louis, I am so glad!" she said, lifting her cloudless blue eyes to his, radiant with delight.
"Then you have not forgotten me? I feared you had," he said, bending over her, and holding fast the little hand that lay imprisoned in his.
"Forget you! – oh, no," she said, her heart fluttering wildly that moment against a little golden cross —his parting gift, which had lain on her bosom all those years.
There was a look of eager delight on his face at her words. She saw it, and grew embarrassed. Withdrawing her hand from his, she said, in a more composed voice:
"When did you arrive?"
"About a week ago. I would have gone to see you, but the weather was so disagreeable," he replied, with a pang of regret and remorse for his neglect.
"Yes, so it was," said Celeste, sincerely; for, having no morbid self-love to be wounded, his excuse seemed the most natural thing in the world.
"And how is my old friend, Miss Hagar?" he asked, drawing her arm within his, and leading her toward the conservatory, now almost deserted.
"Oh, quite well. She will be delighted to see you."
"May I go and see her to-morrow, sweet Celeste?"
"Certainly you may. We will both be very glad to see you," answered Celeste, delightedly.
"She is certainly a paragon of simplicity. No woman of the world would say that," thought Louis, as he glanced at her eager, happy face.
An exclamation from Celeste attracted his attention. He looked up. Right before him stood Minnette, with her glittering black eyes fixed upon them with a look so fierce, so flamingly jealous, that he started back.
"Why, Minnette, what is the matter? Are you ill?" asked Celeste, in alarm.
She would have turned away without answering; but the dark eye of Louis was upon her, and she replied, coldly:
"I am perfectly well. Excuse me; I fear I have interrupted a pleasant tete-a-tete."
And, with one fierce, scorching glance at Celeste, she turned, and hurried away.
Celeste shuddered; something in the dark, passionate face of Minnette frightened her. Her companion perceived it – well he understood the cause; and with matchless tact he drew her mind from the subject to fix it on himself.
During the evening he devoted himself assiduously to Celeste. With her he danced; on his arm she leaned in the promenade; by his side she sat at table. Standing alone and neglected by herself, Minnette saw it all; and, had looks power to kill, those flaming glances of fire would have stricken her rival dead.
It was near morning when the party broke up. Celeste – who always shared Gipsy's room when at the Hall – sought her couch, and soon closed her weary blue eyes in blissful slumbers.
That night, in the dreams of Louis, the dark, resplendent face of Minnette was forgotten for a white-robed vision with a haunting pair of blue eyes. And Minnette – in the calm light of the stars, she trod up and down her apartment until morning broke over the hill-tops, with a wild anguish at her heart she had never before known.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
"THE OLD, OLD STORY."
"I have loved thee, thou gentlest, from a child,
And borne thine image with me o'er the sea —
Thy soft voice in my soul! Speak! oh, yet live for me!"
Hemans.
Agay party gathered around the breakfast-table at Sunset Hall the next morning.
There was Mrs. Oranmore – fair, fragile, but still pretty; then Mrs. Gower, over-shadowing the rest with her large proportions until they all shrank into skeletons beside her, with the exception of the squire, who was in a state of roaring good humor. There was Mrs. Doctor Nicholas Wiseman – our own little Gipsy – as usual, all life, bustle and gayety, keeping up a constant fire of repartee – laughing and chatting unceasingly, poor little elf! to drown thought.
Then there was Louis – gay, gallant and handsome – setting himself and everybody else at ease by his stately courtesy and polished manners. By his side sat our favorite Celeste, fair and fresh, and bright as a rosebud, smiling and blushing at the compliments showered upon her. And last, there sat Minnette, pale, and cold, and silent, with the long, black lashes falling over her eyes to hide the dusky fire that filled them.
"I wish you would stay all day with us, Celeste," said Mrs. Oranmore. "I always feel twice as well when I can look upon your bright face. It seems to me you must have drank at the fountain of beauty and youth."
"In that I agree with you, madam," said Louis.
Minnette bit her lip till the blood started.
"Oh! I really cannot stay, Mrs. Oranmore," said Celeste, blushing vividly. "Miss Hagar is always very lonely during my absence; and besides – "
"You are engaged to make gowns and nightcaps for all the old women of the parish! I know all about it," broke in Gipsy. "Formerly I used to be prime favorite in St. Mark's; but since our return from school I am thrown aside like an old shoe, to make room for your ladyship. I'll leave it to the world in general if I wasn't quoted as an oracle on every occasion. There wasn't a baby spanked, nor an old dress turned upside down, but I was consulted about it. Now, just look at the difference; it's Miss Celeste here, and Miss Celeste there, and Miss Celeste everywhere; while I'm nothing but a poor, dethroned, misfortunate little wretch! I won't put up with it – I just won't. I'll leave it to my daughter-in-law over there, if it isn't unbearable."
"Ha, ha, ha! What do you say, Miss Wiseman?" said the squire, laughing.
"I know nothing about it," coldly replied Minnette.
"And care less, I suppose," said Gipsy. "That's just the way! Even my own children treat me with disrespect. Well, never mind; perhaps the tables will turn yet."
"I am to attend you home, am I not, Celeste?" said Louis, in a low voice, as they arose from the table.
"I am sure I do not know. I suppose you may, if you wish," she replied, ingenuously.
"Oh, go, by all means," said Gipsy, who overheard them. "Anything to keep them away from Minnette," she muttered inwardly.
Accordingly, shortly after the carriage was brought round. Louis handed Celeste in, took the reins, and drove off, unconscious that Minnette, from her chamber window, was watching them, with a look that would have appalled him had he seen it.
That drive home – to what an unheard-of length was it prolonged! Had he been training his horses for a funeral, Louis could not have driven them slower. He had so many things to tell her; wild yet beautiful German legends – of the glorious skies of glorious Italy – of the vine-clad hills of sunny Spain – of gay, gorgeous Paris – and of the happy homes of "merrie England." And Celeste, lying back among the cushions, with half-closed eyes, drank in his low-toned, eloquent words – listened to the dangerous music of his voice – with a feeling unspeakably delicious, but hitherto unknown. She saw not the burning glances of his dark eyes, as they rested on her fair face, but yielded herself up to his magnetic influence without attempting to analyze her feelings.
They reached Valley Cottage all too soon. Louis handed her out, and entered the cottage after her.
Miss Hagar sat in her old seat, as though she had never moved from it.
"Good-morning, dear Miss Hagar," said Celeste, kissing her so affectionately that Louis inwardly wished he could become an old woman forthwith. "See – I have brought a stranger home with me."
Louis stood smiling before her. She raised her solemn, prophetic gray eyes to his face, with a long, earnest gaze.
"Louis Oranmore!" she exclaimed – "welcome home!"
He raised the withered hand she extended so respectfully to his lips that a radiant glance of gratitude from the blue eyes of Celeste rewarded him.
How that morning slipped away, Louis could never tell; but seated, talking to Miss Hagar, with his eyes fixed on the rosy fingers of Celeste flying with redoubled velocity to make up for what was lost, he "took no note of time," until the little clock on the mantel struck two.
"By Jove! so it is!" exclaimed Louis, horrified at his prolonged visit. "What will they think of me at home?"
"Stay and take dinner with us," said Miss Hagar, hospitably.
He hesitated, and glanced at Celeste.
"Pray do," she said, lifting her sunshiny face with an enchanting smile.
Inwardly rejoicing, he consented; and the long summer afternoon vanished as the morning had done – unnoticed.
"I fear your cottage is enchanted, Miss Hagar," he said, laughingly, as he at last arose to go; "I find it next to impossible to tear myself away from it. Or perhaps there is some magnet concealed that keeps people here against their will."
Miss Hagar smiled good-humoredly, and invited him to repeat his visit – an invitation, it is unnecessary to say, the young gentleman condescended to accept.
Celeste accompanied him to the door. As they passed out, he said:
"On this very spot we parted years ago. Do you remember that parting, Celeste?"
"Yes," she said, softly, while her fair face grew crimson as she remembered how wildly she had wept and clung to his neck then.
He read what was passing in her mind, and smiled slightly.
"Your farewell gift, that shining ring of gold, I have kept ever since, as a talisman against all evil," he said, with a slight twinge of conscience as he remembered where it was – at the bottom of one of his trunks, with some scores of other tresses, severed from other fair heads, their owners long since forgotten.
"I am glad you did not forget me during your absence," said Celeste, feeling very much confused, and not knowing very well what she was expected to reply.
"Forget you, Celeste! Who could ever do so after beholding you once?" Then, seeing how painfully she was embarrassed, he turned gayly away, saying: "Good-bye, fairest Celeste! When shall we meet again?"
"I know not. Next Sunday, at church, perhaps."
"As if I could exist so long without seeing my fair Star of the Valley! May I not come to-morrow, Celeste?"
"Yes, if you will bring Gipsy."
"Oh, never mind Gipsy! She will most probably be 'over the hills and far away' long before I open my eyes on this mortal life in the morning. Therefore, to-morrow will behold me once more by the side of my liege lady."
And bowing lightly, he sprang into the saddle and galloped off, followed by Celeste's eyes until he was out of sight.
The gloaming was falling when he reached Sunset Hall. He entered the parlor. It was dark and untenanted, save by a slender, black-robed figure, seated by the window, as motionless as a statue. It was Minnette – her white hands clasped tightly together, and resting on the window-sill, her forehead leaned upon them, her long black hair falling in disorder over her shoulders.
A pang of remorse shot through his heart at the sight of that despairing figure. He went over and laid his hand gently on her arm.
"Minnette!" he said, softly.
At the sound of that loved voice, at the touch of that dear hand, she started up, and, flinging back her long hair, confronted him, with such a white, haggard face, such wild, despairing eyes, that involuntarily he started back.
"Dear Minnette, what is the matter?" he said, gently taking her hand.
She wrenched it from his grasp, with a bitter cry, and sinking back into a seat, covered her face with her hands.
"Minnette, are you ill? What is the matter?" he asked, afraid to accept the answer that his own heart gave.
"The matter!" she cried, bitterly. "Oh, you may ask! You do not know. You were not by my side from morning till night, whispering your wily words into my ear, until this fair, this angelic, Celeste came! You do not know what it is to have led a cold, loveless life, until some one came and won all the wealth of love that had all your days lain dormant, and then cast it back as a worthless gift at your feet! You do not know what it is to discover first you have a heart by its aching! Oh, no! All this is unknown to you. 'Ill!'"
She laughed wildly.
"Minnette! Minnette! do not talk so passionately! In the name of heaven, what have I done?"
"Done!" she repeated, springing fiercely to her feet. "No need to ask what you have done! Was not this heart marble – harder than marble – ay, or granite – till you came? Did you not read it as you would an open book? Did you not strike the rock with a more powerful wand than that of Moses, and did not all the flood of life and love spring forth at your command? You never said in so many words: 'I love you.' Oh, no – you took care not to commit yourself; but could I not read it in every glance of your eye. Yes, deny it if you will, you did love me, until this fair-faced seraph – this 'stray angel,' as I heard you call her – came, and then, for the first new face, I was cast aside as worthless. I was too easy a conquest for this modern hero; and for this artful little hypocrite – for her pink cheeks, her blue eyes, and yellow hair – the heart that loves you ten thousand times more than she can ever do, is trampled under foot! But I tell you to beware, Louis Oranmore; for if I am a 'tigress,' as you often called me in my childhood, I can tear and rend in pieces all those who will cause my misery."
She looked like some beautiful fiend, in her fierce outburst of stormy passion; her face livid, save two dark purple spots on either cheek; her eyes flaming, blazing; her lips, white; her wild black hair falling like a vail of darkness around her white face.
"Minnette —dear Minnette!" – like a magic spell his low-toned words fell on her maddened spirit – "you are mistaken. I never loved you as you fancy; I admired your beauty. I might have loved you, but I well knew the fierce, jealous nature that lay smoldering in your heart, under the living coals of your passions. Minnette, the woman I love must be gentle and womanly, for that means all; the fawn, not the lioness, suits me. Extremes meet, they say; and my own nature is too hot, passionate, and fiery, ever to mate with a spirit like to itself. In Celeste, gentle, tender, and dove-like – sit still, Minnette, you must hear me out." He held her down, writhing in anguish, by the force of his stronger will. "In her, I say, I find all that I would ask of a woman. Therefore my heart was drawn toward her. Had I found the same qualities in you, I would have loved you, instead of her. And now, dear Minnette, forgive me if I have occasioned you pain; but for your own peace of mind, it was necessary that I should tell you this."
She was quivering, writhing in intense anguish, crouching in her seat in a strange, distorted attitude 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 God 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 passions 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 passed. 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, impassible 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."