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?"