"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.
gay 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."
"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 hoarse, fierce voice cried:
"Stop!"
Celeste turned, and almost shrieked aloud, as she beheld Minnette standing like a galvanized corpse before her.