They were seated in a rich and shady arbour, over which creeping vines wandered in every variety of curve, suspending large clusters of precious fruits, while the atmosphere was laden with the mellow fragrance of the gorgeous plants which grew in wild, untutored luxuriance about the shady retreat. The fading light of day yet lingered, and gave a rosy hue to the face of the maid who sat therein, as she regarded with mournful tenderness the youth seated at her side.
“Nay, Quentin,” said she, “say not so, it is duty which prompts me to say it must not be. Had I not affection for my father, do you believe I would act contrary to my own desires? would I cause you unhappiness?”
“Is this your love?” said the other, with a tone of fretfulness. “Methinks it cannot be a very ardent flame when it is so easily extinguished by the perverse and obstinate tyranny of a—”
“Stay your words,” interrupted the girl, as she laid her delicate hand tenderly on his lips. “You will respect the father if you love the child.” The noble mind of the youth was struck with the reproof, and although opposed to his desires her filial reply expressed such purity and excellence, that he instantly made reparation.
“Forgive me, dearest,” he entreated. “I spoke hastily and unworthily. But your words have crazed my soul, which builds its happiness on the possession of you. If it may not be that I shall be your husband, oh! promise me that no other shall.”
“I would fain do so,” sighed the afflicted girl, “but if my father commands, can I disobey? I have had no mother’s care since childhood, but I have scarce felt the loss. My father has thrown off the coldness of a man and been a very woman in his affection for me. Shall I repay his kindness with ingratitude? Alas! Quentin, if he tells me to love another, I cannot do so; but if he bids me wed, Quentin, you would not censure me?” The expiring rays of the setting sun fell on her features as she earnestly gazed upon her lover.
“Ah!” cried the youth, with a sudden start, as he struck his hand upon his brow, “why that blush, that agitation? Deceive me not, Elzia, you are not supposing a case. This has already happened; I see it all; your father has selected a bridegroom for you.”
The maid sank her head upon his bosom, and through her struggling tears she sobbed, “Quentin, thou hast said it.”
Desperate was the conflict in the bosom of the youth as he sat like one in a trance, his eyes fixed on hers, which, like the sun breaking through clouds of the passing storm, gleamed from under their dripping lashes. Soon he saw the rainbow of hope.
“Who is my rival?” he asked with a voice scarcely audible.