"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.

A 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."

"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."

"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.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE RIVALS.

"All other passions have their hour of thinking,

And hear the voice of reason. This alone

Breaks at the first suspicion into frenzy,

And sweeps the soul in tempests."--SHAKESPEARE.

For a moment the rivals stood silently confronting each other--Celeste

pale and trembling before that dark, passionate glance; Minnette white

and rigid, but with scorching, burning eyes.

"Minnette, what is the matter?" said Celeste, at last finding voice.

"Good heavens! you look as though you were crazed."

"Crazed!" hissed Minnette through her teeth. "You consummate little

hypocrite! Your conduct, no doubt, should make me very cool and

composed. Girl, I say to you, beware! Better for you you had never been

born, than live to cross my path!"

Her voice was hoarse with concentrated passion--her small hands clenched

until the nails sank into the quivering flesh. With a shudder, Celeste

covered her face in her hands to shut out the scathing glance of those

dark, gleaming eyes.

"Oh, Minnette!--dear Minnette!--do not look at me so. Your eyes kill

me," she said, with a shiver.

"Would to Heaven they could!" fiercely exclaimed Minnette.

"Oh, Minnette! what have I done? If I have injured you, I am very sorry.

Indeed, indeed, it was unintentional. I would sooner die than have any

one hate me!" said Celeste, clasping her hands imploringly.

"Injured me!" almost shrieked Minnette, clutching her arm so fiercely,

that Celeste cried out with pain. "Injured me, did you say? Yes--the

greatest injury one woman can ever do another you have done me. From

early childhood you have crossed my path, and, under your artfully

assumed vail of simplicity, won the love of the only being under heaven

I ever cared for--won him with your silly smiles, your baby face, and

cowardly tears; you, a poor, nameless beggar--a dependent on the bounty

of others. _Hate you!_--yes, from the first moment I beheld you, I hated

you with an intensity you can never dream of until you feel the full

weight of my vengeance; for I tell you I will be avenged; yes, I would

peril my own soul, if by so doing I could wreak still more dire revenge

on your head. I tell you, you began a dangerous game when you trifled

with me. I am no sickly, sentimental fool, to break my heart and

die--no; I shall drag down with me all who have stood in my way, and

then die, if need be, gloating over the agonies I have made them suffer.

Beware, I tell you; for no tigress, robbed of her young, can be fiercer

than this newly awakened heart!"

She hurled Celeste from her, as she ceased, with such violence, that she

reeled and fell; and, striking her head against a projecting stone, lay

for some minutes stunned and motionless. A dark stream of blood flowed

slowly from the wound; and Minnette stood gazing upon it with a fiendish

smile on her beautiful face. Slowly, and with difficulty, Celeste

arose--pressing her handkerchief to her face to stanch the flowing

blood; and, lifting her soft, pitying eyes to the wild, vindictive face

above her, she said:

"Minnette, I forgive you. You are crazed, and know not what you do.

But, oh! Minnette, you wrong me. I never intentionally injured

you--never, as heaven is my witness! I have tried to love you as a

sister always. Never, never--by word, or thought, or deed--have I

willingly given you a moment's pain. I would sooner cut off my right

hand than offend you. Oh, Minnette! can we never be friends?"

"Friends!" repeated Minnette, with a wild laugh; "yes, when the serpent

dwells with the dove; when the tiger mates with the lamb; when two

jealous women love each other--then we will be friends. Perjure yourself

not before me. Though an angel from heaven were to descend to plead for

you, I would neither forgive you nor believe your words."

"What have I done to make you hate me so?"

"You brazen hypocrite! do you dare to ask me what you have done? _He_

did, too! A precious pair of innocents, both of you!" said Minnette,

with her bitter, jeering laugh. "Little need to tell you what you have

done. Did you not win the love of Louis Oranmore from me by your

skillful machinations? He loved me before he saw you. You knew it; and

yet, from the very first moment you beheld him, you set to work to make

him hate me. Do not deny it, you barefaced, artful impostor! Did I not

hear you both to-night?--and was not the demon within me prompting me to

spring forward and stab you both to the heart? But my vengeance, though

delayed, shall be none the less sure, and, when the time comes, woe to

you and to him; for if I must perish, I shall not perish alone."

During this fierce, excited speech--every word of which had stabbed her

to the heart--Celeste had staggered against a tree; and, covering her

face with her hands, stood like one suddenly pierced by a sword; every

word burned into her very brain like fire, as she stood like one

fainting--dying. By a great effort, she crushed back the flood of her

emotions; and when Minnette ceased, she lifted up her face--pale as

death, but firm and earnest.

"Minnette Wiseman," she said, in a voice of gentle dignity, so unusual

to her that the dark, passionate girl gazed on her in astonishment, "as

heaven hears me, I am guilty of none of these things of which you accuse

me. If Louis Oranmore loved you, I knew it not, or I would not have

listened to him; if he won your heart, I dreamed not of it, or he should

never have won mine. I thought you loved no one but yourself. I

never--never dreamed you cared for him. For all the misery he has caused

us both, may heaven forgive him, as I do! If he loved you first, you

have a prior claim to his heart. I will tell him so to-morrow, and never

listen to him more."

She strove to speak calmly to the end; but at the last her voice died

away in a low tone of utter despair.

"Bah! your acting disgusts me!" exclaimed Minnette, contemptuously. "Do

you not suppose I can see through this vail with which you would blind

my eyes? You will tell him to-morrow, forsooth! Yes, you will tell him I

came here to abuse you, and strike you, and load you with vile epithets,

and with what saint-like patience you bore them. You will represent

yourself as such an injured innocent, and I as a monster of cruelty; you

will tell him, when I smote you on one cheek, how you turned the other.

Faugh! do not make me despise you as well as hate you."

"You cannot despise me, Minnette; you know you cannot," said Celeste,

with something like indignation in her gentle voice, as her

truth-beaming eye met undauntedly the flashing orbs before her. "You

know I have spoken the truth. You know in your own heart I am no

hypocrite. Hate me if you will--I cannot prevent you; but you shall not

despise me. I have never intentionally wronged you, and I never will. If

Louis Oranmore loves you as you say, I wish you both all happiness. I

shall no longer stand between you and his heart."

"Oh! wonderful heroism!" cried Minnette, in bitter mockery. "You can

well afford to say you give him up, when you know he loves me no longer;

when you know you have surely and unalterably won him to yourself. Well

do you know this pretended self-denial of yours will elevate you a

thousand times higher still in his estimation, and make him love you far

more than ever before. Oh! you have learned your trade of deception

well. Pity all cannot see through it as I do. Think not to deceive me as

you have done so many others; I, at least, can see your shallow,

selfish, cold-blooded heart."

"I will not stay to listen to your words, Minnette; they are too

dreadful. Some day, perhaps, you will discover how you have wronged me.

I am not deceiving you; he _must_ give me up if what you say be true. I

will even go away if you wish it--anywhere, so that you may be

satisfied. I will write and tell him, and never see him more, if that

will satisfy you." Her voice faltered a little, but she went on; "I will

do anything--anything, Minnette, if you will only not call me such

terrible things. It is fearful--horrible, to be hated so without cause."

Minnette did not speak, but glared upon her with her burning, flaming

eyes. Two dark purple spots--now fading, now glowing vividly out--burned

on either cheek; otherwise, no snow-wreath was ever whiter than her

face. Her teeth were set hard; her hands tightly clenched; her dark

brows knit, as though about to spring upon the speaker and rend her to

pieces. She made one step toward her. With a piercing cry of terror,

Celeste sprang away, darted through the garden gate, flew up the narrow

path, burst into the cottage, closed and bolted the door, and sank,

panting and almost fainting, on the ground.

"Good heavens! child, what is the matter?" asked Miss Hagar, rising, in

alarm.

"Oh! save me--save me from her!" was all Celeste could utter.

"Save you from whom? Who are you speaking of? Who has frightened you

so?" inquired Miss Hagar, still more astonished.

Celeste slowly rose from the ground, without speaking. Consciousness was

beginning to return, but she was still stunned and bewildered.

"Merciful Father!" cried Miss Hagar, as Celeste turned toward the light,

"what has happened?"

And truly she might exclaim, at beholding that deadly paleface--those

wild, excited eyes--the disheveled golden hair--the blood-stained, and

torn and disordered dress.

"Nothing! oh, nothing, nothing!" said Celeste, passing her hand slowly

over her eyes, as if to clear away a mist, and speaking in a slow,

bewildered tone.

"But, child, there is something the matter!" insisted Miss Hagar. "You

look as though you were crazed, and your face is stained with blood."

"Is it? I had forgotten," said Celeste, pushing her hair vacantly off

her wounded forehead. "It is nothing at all, though. I do not feel it."

"But how did it happen?"

"Oh!--why, I was frightened, and ran, and fell," said Celeste, scarcely

knowing what she said.

"What was it frightened you?" pursued Miss Hagar, wondering at her

strange manner.

Celeste, without reply, sank upon a seat and pressed her hands to her

throbbing temples to collect her scattered thoughts. She felt sick and

dizzy--unable to think and speak coherently. Her head ached with the

intensity of her emotions; and her eyes felt dry and burning. Her brow

was hot and feverish with such violent and unusual excitement. Her only

idea was to get away--to be alone--that she might collect her wandering

senses.

"Miss Hagar," she said, rising, "I cannot tell you what has happened. I

must be alone to-night. To-morrow, perhaps, I will tell you all."

"Any time you please, child," said Miss Hagar, kindly. "Go to your room

by all means. Good-night."

"Good-night!" said Celeste, taking her lamp and quitting the room.

She staggered as she walked. On reaching her room she set the lamp on

the table, and entwined her arms above her head, which dropped heavily

upon it. Unaccustomed to excitement of any kind, she felt more as if

heart and brain were on fire. Loving Louis with the strong affection of

her loving heart, the sudden disclosure and jealous fury of Minnette

stunned and stupefied her for a time. So she lay for nearly an hour,

unable to think or realize what had happened--only conscious of a dull,

dreary pain at her heart. Then the mist slowly cleared away from her

mental vision--the fierce words of Minnette danced in red, lurid letters

before her eyes. She started to her feet, and paced her chamber wildly.

"Oh! why am I doomed to make others miserable?" she cried, wringing her

hands. "Oh, Louis, Louis! why have you deceived me thus? What have I

done that I should suffer such misery? But it is wrong to complain. I

must not, will not murmur. I will not reproach him for what he has done,

but try to forget him. May he be as happy with Minnette as I would have

striven to render him! To-morrow I will see him, and return all the

gifts cherished for his sake; to-morrow I will bid him a last adieu;

to-morrow--but, oh! I cannot--I cannot!" she exclaimed, passionately. "I

cannot see him and bid him go. Oh, Father of the fatherless! aid me in

my anguish!"

She fell on her knees by the bedside, and a wild, earnest prayer broke

from her tortured lips.

By degrees she grew calm; her wild excitement died away; the scorching

heat left her brain, and blessed tears came to her aid. Long and

bitterly she wept; long and earnestly she prayed--no longer as one

without hope, but trustful and resigned, bending her meek head to the

blow of the chastening rod.

She arose from her knees, pale, but calm and resigned.

"I will not see him," she murmured. "Better for us both I should never

see him again! I will write--I will tell him all--and then all that is

past must be forgotten. In the creature I was forgetting the Creator;

for the worship of God I was substituting the worship of man; and my

Heavenly Father, tempering justice with mercy, has lifted me from the

gulf into which I was falling, and set me in the narrow way once more.

Henceforth, no earthly idol shall fill my heart; to Him alone shall it

be consecrated; and I will live on in the hope that there is yet 'balm

in Gilead' for me."

It was very easy to speak thus, in the sudden reaction from despair to

joy--very easy to talk in this way in the excitement of the moment,

after her heart had been relieved by tears. She thought not of the weary

days and nights in the future, that would seem to have no end, when her

very soul would cry out in wild despair for that "earthly idol" again.

And full of her resolution, with cheeks and eyes glowing with the light

of inspiration, she sat down at the table, and, drawing pen and paper

before her, began to write.

A long, earnest, eloquent letter it was. She resigned him forever,

bidding him be happy with Minnette, and forget and forgive her, and

breathing the very soul of sisterly love and forgiveness. Page after

page was filled, while her cheek flushed deeper, and her eyes grew

brighter, and her pen flew on as if inspired.

There, in the holy seclusion of her chamber, in the solemn stillness of

night, she made the total renunciation of him she loved best on earth,

scarcely feeling now she had lost him, in the lofty exaltation of her

feelings.

It was finished at last. The pen dropped from her hand, and she arose to

seek for the few gifts he had ever given her. A little golden locket,

containing his likeness and a lock of his hair; her betrothal-ring; and

the oft-mentioned gold cross. That was all.

She opened the likeness, and through all her heroism a wild, sharp

thrill of anguish pierced her heart, as she gazed on those calm,

beautiful features. The sable ring of hair twined itself round her

fingers as though unwilling to leave her; but resolutely she replaced

it, and drew off the plain gold circlet of their betrothal, and laid

them side by side. Then her cross--it had never left her neck since the

night he had placed it there. All the old tide of love swelled back to

her heart as she gazed upon it. It seemed like rending her very

heart-strings to take it off.

"I cannot! I cannot!" was her anguished cry, as her arm dropped

powerless on the table.

"You must! you must! it is your duty!" cried the stern voice of

conscience; and, with trembling fingers and blanched lips, the precious

token was removed and laid beside the others.

Then, sealing them up, with one last, agonizing look, such as we might

bestow on the face of a dear friend about to be consigned to the grave,

she sealed and directed the packet, and then threw herself on her bed

and pressed her hands over her eyes to hide out the face of her dead.

But in spite of sorrow, sleep _will_ visit the afflicted, and a bright

morning sunbeam fell like a halo on her pale face, calm in sleep, and on

the golden eyelashes, still wet with undried tear-drops.

That same broad July sunbeam fell on Minnette lying prone on her face in

the damp pine woods, her long, black hair and dark garments dropping

with the soaking dew. The dark, lonely woods had been her couch the

livelong night.

CHAPTER XXX.

GIPSY HUNTS NEW GAME.

"And by the watch-fire's gleaming light,

Close by his side was seen

A huntress maid in beauty bright

With airy robes of green."--SCOTT.

It was early afternoon of that same day on which the events related in

the last chapter occurred. Squire Erliston, in after-dinner mood, sat in

his arm-chair; Louis lay idly on a lounge at a little distance, and

Gipsy sat by the window, yawningly turning over a volume of prints. Mrs.

Oranmore, swathed in shawls, lounged on her sofa, her prayerbook in her

hand, taking a succession of short naps.

It was the squire's custom to go to sleep after dinner; but now, in his

evident excitement, he seemed quite to forget it altogether.

"Yes, sir," he was saying to Louis, "the scoundrel actually entered the

sheriff's house through the window, and carried off more than a hundred

dollars, right under their very noses. It's monstrous!--it's outrageous!

He deserves to be drawn and quartered for his villainy! And he will be,

too, if he's taken. The country 'll soon be overrun with just such

rascals, if the scoundrel isn't made an example of."

"Of whom are you speaking, papa?" inquired Lizzie, suddenly walking up.

"Of one of Drummond's negroes--a perfect ruffian; Big Tom, they call

him. He's fled to the woods, and only makes his appearance at night. He

stabbed young Drummond himself; and since then, he's committed all sorts

of depredations. Simms, the sheriff, came down yesterday with constables

to arrest them; and during the night, the scoundrel actually had the

audacity to enter the sheriff's window, and decamped with a hundred

dollars before they could take him. He met one of the constables in the

yard as he was going out. The constable cried 'murder,' and seized him;

but Big Tom--who is a regular giant--just lifted him up and hurled him

over the wall, where he fell upon a heap of stones, breaking his

collar-bone, two of his legs, 'and the rest of his ribs,' as Solomon

says. The constable's not expected to live; and Big Tom got off to his

den in safety with his booty."

"Why do they not scour the woods in a body?" inquired Louis.

"So they did; but--bless your soul!--it's like looking for a needle in a

hay-stack--couldn't find him anywhere."

"Oh! it was capital fun!" said Gipsy, laughing, "it reminded me of

'hide-and-go-seek' more than anything else. Once or twice they caught

sight of me through the bushes, and taking me for poor Tom, came pretty

near firing on me. Simms made them stop, and called to me to surrender

to the law, or I'd repent it. Accordingly, I surrendered, and rode out,

and--my goodness!--if they didn't look blue when they saw me! I burst

right out laughing in their face, and made Simms so mad that I guess he

wished he had let his men shoot me. Oh! didn't I have a jolly time,

though! I took them, by various artifices, miles out of their

way--generally leaving them half-swamped in a bog, or in some pathless

part of the woods--until Simms lost all patience, and swore till he was

black in the face, and rode home in a towering passion, all covered with

mud, and his fine city clothes torn to tatters. Ha, ha, ha! I guess I

enjoyed it, if they didn't."

"As mischievous as ever!" exclaimed the squire. "Pretty way, that, to

treat the officers of the law in the discharge of their duty! How will

you like it, if that black demon comes here some night, and murders us

all in our beds?"

Lizzie uttered a stifled shriek at the idea.

"I'm sure I'll be glad of it, if he only murders Spider first, and so

save me the trouble," said Gipsy.

"You're an affectionate wife, 'pon my word," muttered Louis.

"Yes; but it's just like the diabolical young imp," growled the squire.

"Thank you--you're complimentary," muttered Gipsy.

"Mind you," continued the squire, "while Big Tom's at liberty you must

leave off your rides through the woods and over the hills--because he

might be the death of you at any moment."

"More likely I'd be the death of him. I never was born to be killed by a

ruffian."

"No; for if the gallows had its dues----"

"You wouldn't be here to-day," interrupted Gipsy.

"Come--don't interrupt me, young woman. I positively forbid you or any

one in this place riding out while Big Tom's roaming about."

"That's right, Guardy--show your authority. Nothing like keeping it up,

you know. And now, as I'm off to give Mignonne an airing, I'll think of

your commands by the way."

And the disobedient elf arose to leave the room.

"But, my dear, tantalizing little coz, it really is dangerous,"

interrupted Louis. "If you were to encounter this gigantic negro, alone,

it would be rather a serious affair, I'm afraid."

"Bother!" exclaimed the polite and courteous Mrs. Wiseman. "Do you

s'pose I'm afraid--Gipsy Gower afraid! Whew! I like that! Make your mind

easy, my dear Louis. I could face a regiment on Mignonne's back without

flinching."

And Gipsy darted off to don her riding-habit, singing as she went:

"Some love to roam

O'er the dark sea foam,

Where the shrill winds whistle free;

But a chosen band

In the mountain land,

And a life in the woods for me."

Ten minutes afterward they saw her ride out of the court-yard at her

usual furious rate, and dash away over the hills, where she was speedily

out of sight.

Gipsy must have had some of the Arab in her nature; for she spent almost

her whole life on horseback. She heeded not the flight of time, as she

thundered along, riding in the most hazardous places--sometimes

narrowly escaping being dashed to pieces over precipices--sometimes

leaping yawning chasms that would make many a stout hunter's head giddy.

The excitement was a part--a necessity--of her nature. The almost

stagnant life in the village would have driven the hot-headed, impetuous

girl wild, but for the mad excitement of the chase. Brave as a young

lioness--bold and free as the eagle of her native mountains--she scorned

fear, and sought danger as others do safety. She knew it was putting her

head into the lion's mouth to venture alone into this wild, unfrequented

region, within arm's length of a desperate villain, hunted down like a

furious beast; yet the idea of not venturing here never once entered her

mad little head.

It was growing dark before Gipsy began to think of turning her steps

homeward. Reluctantly she turned her horse's head, and set out for Mount

Sunset--half regretting she had met with no adventure worth relating on

her return.

As she rapidly galloped along she discovered she had ridden much farther

than she had intended, and that it would be late ere she reached the

hall. The dim starlight alone guided her path; for the moon had not yet

risen. But Mignonne was so well accustomed to the road that he could

have found his way in the dark; and Gipsy rode on gayly, humming to

herself a merry hunting-chorus.

Suddenly a gleam of light from between the trees flashed across their

path. Mignonne, like his mistress, being only a half-tamed thing at

best, reared suddenly upright, and would have dashed off at headlong

speed, had not Gipsy held the reins with a grasp of iron. Her strength

was wonderful for a creature so small and slight; but her vigorous

exercise had given her thews and muscles of steel. Mignonne felt he was

in the hand of a master-spirit, and after a few fierce bounds and

plunges, stood still and surrendered.

Rapidly alighting, Gipsy bound her horse securely, and then stole

noiselessly through the trees. The cause of the light was soon

discovered; and Gipsy beheld a sight that, daring and fearless as she

was, for a moment froze the very blood in her veins.

A small semicircle was before her, in the center of which the remains of

a fire still glowed, casting a hot, reddish glare around. By its lurid

light the huge figure of a gigantic negro, whose hideous face was now

frightfully convulsed with rage. On her knees at his feet was a woman,

whom he grasped with one hand by the throat, and with the other

brandished over her head a long, murderous knife. The sight for a moment

left Gipsy's eyes, and her very heart ceased beating. Then, with the

rapidity of lightning, she drew a pistol, aimed and fired.

One second more and she would have been too late. With the shriek of a

madman the huge negro leaped into the air, and bounded to where she

stood. She turned to fly, but ere she had advanced a yard she was in the

furious grasp of the wounded monster. His red eyes were like balls of

fire, he foamed, he roared with rage and pain, as with one huge hand he

raised the slight form of Gipsy to dash out her brains.

In that moment of deadly peril the brave girl was as cool and

self-possessed as though she were seated in safety in her guardian's

parlor. A gleaming knife was stuck in his belt. Quick as thought she

drew it out, and, concentrating all her strength, she plunged it in his

breast.

The hot blood spurted in a gush up in her face. Without a cry the

ruffian reeled, his hand relaxed, and Gipsy sprang from his grasp just

as he fell heavily to the ground.

Gipsy staggered against a tree, with a deadly inclination to swoon

coming over her. She covered her face with her hands to hide the ghastly

form of the huge negro, lying weltering in his own blood before her. She

had taken a life; and though it was done in self-defense, and to save

the life of another, it lay on her heart like lead.

The thought of that other at length aroused her to action. Darting

through the trees she approached the fire. The woman lay on the ground,

senseless, and half strangled. The firelight, as it fell upon her,

showed the face and form of an old woman, upward of fifty, poorly clad,

and garments half torn off in the scuffle.

The sight restored Gipsy to her wonted composure. Kneeling down, she

began chafing the old woman's hands and temples with an energy that soon

restored her to consciousness. She opened her eyes and glared for a

moment wildly around; then, as consciousness returned, she uttered

shriek upon shriek, making the forest resound.

"Stop your screaming," said Gipsy, shaking her in her excitement.

"You're safe enough now. Stop, will you. I tell you you're safe."

"Safe!" repeated the woman, wildly. "Oh, that drefful nigger----"

"He won't hurt you any more. Stop your noise, and get up, and come with

me!" said Gipsy, impatiently.

"Oh! Lor' a massey! I can't git up. I'm all out o' j'int. I'm dead

entirely!" groaned the woman.

"Then I shall leave you here," said Gipsy, rising.

"Oh, don't leave me!--don't, for God's sake! I'd die o' fear!" screamed

the woman, grasping Gipsy's dress.

"Then, you stupid old thing, get up and come along," cried Gipsy, losing

all patience, as she seized her with no gentle hand, and pulled her to

her feet.

"Where 'll I go?" said the poor old creature, trembling with mortal

terror, evidently as much afraid of the fierce little Amazon before her,

as of the huge negro.

"This way," said Gipsy, pulling her along to where stood her horse.

"Now, get up there, and put your arms around my waist, and hold on for

your life."

"Oh! dear me! I never rid a horseback in my life, and I'll fall off--I

know I will!" said the old woman, wringing her hands in fresh distress.

"Well, I can't help it; you'll have to make the attempt, or stay here

till I reach St. Mark's, and rouse up the people. Which will you do?"

"Oh! I dassent stay. I'll go 'long with you, somehow."

"Very well. Up with you then," said Gipsy, almost lifting her into the

saddle. "Now, I'll get on before you, and mind, if you don't hold on

well, you'll never reach the village alive."

With the clutch of mortal fear, the old lady grasped Gipsy round the

waist, and held on for dear life, until Mount Sunset was gained, when,

more dead than alive, she was assisted to alight, and consigned to the

care of the servants.

Louis, who had just returned from his interview with Celeste, was in the

parlor with the squire, meditating how he should make his proposal, when

Gipsy, pale, wild, and disordered, her hair disheveled, and her garments

dyed with blood, burst in upon them, electrifying them with amazement.

Great was their consternation as they listened to the rapidly-told

tale. There was no time left to congratulate her on her narrow escape,

for she impetuously commanded Louis to mount immediately and take three

or four of the servants to bring away the body.

With a rapidity almost as great as her own, her counsels were obeyed,

and Gipsy, with Louis beside her, started back to the scene of the

catastrophe, followed by four of the servants.

They reached the spot at last, and Gipsy drew back in dismay as she

discovered the body was gone.

"Who can have carried it off?" she exclaimed, aghast.

"I rather think he has carried himself off," said Louis, who had been

attentively examining the ground.

"Oh, impossible! He was dead, I tell you--just as _dead_ as ever he

could be," said Gipsy.

"Well, dead or not, he has made his escape," said Louis. "See, the grass

is dyed with blood all along, showing the way he has gone. Come, the

trail is plain enough, let us follow it."

All dismounted and followed Louis. Not far had they to go, for lying by

the fire was the burly form of the negro. He had evidently, with much

difficulty, dragged himself thus far, and then sank down exhausted.

He rolled his glaring eyes fiercely on the faces bending over him, and

gnashed his teeth in impotent rage as he saw Gipsy.

"Thank God! I have not killed him!" was her first fervent ejaculation.

Then, while Louis and the servants began making a sort of litter, she

knelt beside him, and strove to stanch the flowing blood, undeterred by

the wild, ferocious glare of his fiery eyes.

"Now, Tom, look here," said Gipsy, as she composedly went on with her

work, "there's no use in your looking daggers at me that way, because it

don't alarm me a bit. You needn't be mad at me either, for though I

fired on you first, it was to save the life of an old woman, who might

have been a loss to the world; and if I made use of your knife

afterward, it was to save the life of Mrs. Doctor Nicholas Wiseman, who

would have been a greater loss still. So you see I couldn't help myself,

and you may as well look at the matter in the same light."

By this time the rest came back with a sort of litter; and groaning and

writhing with pain, the heavy form of the wounded giant was lifted on

their shoulders, and borne toward the village, where it was consigned to

the care of the sheriff, who was thunderstruck when he heard of Gipsy's

daring.

On their return to Sunset Hall, they learned from the old woman, who

seemed threatened with a severe illness, how it had all occurred.

She was a "poor, lone woman," she said--a widow, named Mrs. Donne,

living by herself for ten odd years, in a little cottage beyond St.

Mark's.

She was reputed to be rich--a rumor she never contradicted, as it made

her neighbors treat her with distinction, in the hope that she would

remember them in her will.

Big Tom, hearing the rumor, and believing it, came to her cottage, and

demanded money. She had none to give him, and told him so, which

exasperated him beyond measure. He threatened to kill her if she

persisted in refusing, and gagged her to stifle her cries. Then, finding

her still obstinate, he carried her off with him to the spot where Gipsy

had found them, and again offered her her life if she would deliver up

her money. Still she was forced to refuse, and maddened with rage and

disappointment, he was about to murder her, when Gipsy providentially

appeared, and saved her life.

Not without many interruptions was this story told; and ere it was

concluded, Mrs. Donne was in a high fever. Gipsy installed herself as

nurse, and listened in wonder and surprise to her raving of infants left

to perish in snow-storms, and her wild words of sorrow and remorse for

some past crime.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CELESTE'S TRIAL.

"This morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow,

Ere we two meet again.

He turned his charger as he spoke,

Upon the river shore;

He gave the reins a shake, and said,

Adieu forevermore,

My love!

Adieu forevermore."

"Marry Celeste Pearl!--a girl without a farthing! a beggar! a foundling!

I'm astonished, thunderstruck, _speechless_, sir, at your audacity in

proposing such a thing! I _have_ objections, sir--most _de_-cided

objections, sir! Don't ever let me hear you mention such a thing again!"

And Squire Erliston stamped up and down, red with rage and indignation.

Louis stood with darkening brows, flashing eyes, and folded arms, before

him--outwardly quiet, but compressing his lips to keep down the fiery

tide of his rising passion.

"What are your objections, sir?" he asked, with forced calmness.

"Objections! Why, sir, there's so many objections that I can't enumerate

them. First place, she hasn't a cent; second, nobody knows who or what

she is; third, she'll never do for my granddaughter-in-law. Therefore,

sir, please drop the subject; I never want to hear anything more about

it--for I shouldn't consent if you were to plead on your knees. The

girl's a good girl enough in her place, but she won't do for the wife of

Louis Oranmore. What, sir, consent that you, the heir to the richest

landed estate this side the north pole, should marry a poor, unknown

beggar-girl, who has lived all her life on the charity of others! No,

sir, never!" said the squire, furiously, flinging himself into his

chair, and mopping his inflamed visage.

The face of Louis was white with suppressed rage, and with an expression

of ungovernable anger, he burst from the room. In his fierce excitement

he saw not whither he went, until he ran full against Totty, who was

entering, with a letter in her hand.

"Lor', Mas'r Lou, how you scare me! You like to knock me upside down.

Hi! here's a 'pistle for you, what Curly, old Miss Ager's gal, brought

over, an' told me her young Miss 'Sless sent you."

"From Celeste," exclaimed Louis, snatching it from her hand and tearing

it open. His gifts fell to the floor; and scarcely able to believe his

senses, he read its contents--his brow growing darker and darker as he

read. He crushed it fiercely in his hand as he finished, and paced up

and down the long hall like a madman.

"And such is woman's love!" he exclaimed, with a scornful laugh. "She

gives me up, and bids me be happy with Minnette. What drove that

jealous girl to love me; and to make Celeste believe I loved her first?

Everything seems to cross my path--this mad girl's passion, and my

grandfather's obstinate refusal. Well, she shall be mine, in spite of

fate. I will marry her privately, and take her with me to Italy. Yes,

that is the only plan. I will ride over to the cottage, and obtain her

consent; and then, let those I leave behind do as they will, my

happiness will be complete."

So saying, he quitted the house, mounted his horse, and rode rapidly

toward the cottage.

Celeste was in the garden, binding up a broken rose-bush--looking paler,

but lovelier than ever. She uttered a half-stifled cry as she saw him,

and the last trace of color faded from her face as he leaped from his

horse and stood beside her.

"Celeste, what means this?" he demanded, impetuously. "Do you really

believe this tale told you by Minnette?"

"Oh, Louis, is it not true?" exclaimed Celeste, clasping her hands.

"True! Celeste, Celeste! do you take me to be such a villain? As heaven

hears me, I never spoke a word of love to her in my life!"

This was true in the letter, but not in the spirit. He had never

_spoken_ of love to Minnette, but he had _looked_ it often enough.

"Thank heaven!" exclaimed Celeste, impulsively, while she bowed her face

in her hands and wept.

"Dear Celeste," said Louis, drawing her gently toward him, "do you

retract those cruel words you have written? You will not give me up,

will you?"

"Oh, no! not _now_," replied Celeste, yielding to his embrace. "Oh,

Louis, what do you suppose made Minnette say such dreadful things to me

last night?"

"Because--I beg you will not think me conceited, dearest--she fancies

she loves me, and is jealous of you. Perhaps, too, she thinks if I did

not love you, I might return her affection; and the only way to end her

chimerical hopes is by our immediate union. Say, dear love, when will

you be mine?"

"Oh, Louis! I do not know," said Celeste, blushing scarlet. "I do not

want to be married so soon, and--you must ask your grandfather."

"I have asked him, dearest."

"And he----"

"_Refused!_ I knew it would be so. He is obstinate and eccentric. But,

Celeste, his refusal need make no difference to us."

She raised her blue eyes to his face, with a look of unconcealed wonder.

"We can be privately wedded, and I will take you with me to Europe,

where we will reside until I have succeeded in pacifying the squire with

my course."

She stood before him, looking calmly and gravely in his face. His voice

was low, but full of passion, and he saw not that earnest, sorrowful

gaze.

"Say, Celeste--dearest Celeste--do you consent?" he asked, his eyes

filled with fire, as he strove to clasp her. She shrank away, almost in

fear, and pushed back his hands.

"Oh, Louis! don't, don't," she cried, sadly.

"But you will consent? you will go with me?" he said, eagerly,

passionately.

"Oh, no, no!--no, no! I cannot--it is impossible."

"Impossible! _Why_, Celeste?"

"It would be wrong."

"Wrong! Because an old man objects to your want of fortune, it would be

wrong to marry me. Nonsense, Celeste!"

"It would be wrong to disobey your grandfather, Louis."

"Not in a case like this, Celeste. I am not bound to obey him when he is

unreasonable."

"He is not unreasonable in this, Louis. It is very reasonable he should

wish you to marry one your equal in wealth and social position."

"And would _you_ have me marry for wealth and social position, Celeste?"

he asked, reproachfully.

"Oh! no, no! Heaven forbid! But I would not marry you against his will.

We can wait--a few years will not make much difference, dear Louis. We

are both young, and can afford to be patient."

"Patience! Don't talk to me of patience!" he exclaimed, passionately.

"You never loved me; if you had you would not stand thus on a little

point of decorum. You are your own mistress--you have no parents to whom

you owe obedience; my mother is willing enough, and yet, because an old

man objects to your want of money, you stand there in your cold dignity,

and exhort me to be patient and wait. Celeste, I _will not_ wait. You

_must_ come with me to Italy!"

But she only stood before him, pale and sad, but firm and unyielding.

Long and eloquently he pleaded, passionately and vehemently he urged

her, but all in vain. She listened and answered by silence and tears,

but steadily and firmly refused to consent.

"Well, Celeste, will you come?" he asked, at length, after a long and

earnest entreaty.

"Louis, I cannot. Not even for your sake can I do what my conscience

tells me would be wrong. You say your grandfather has no right to

control you in your choice of a wife. It may be so; but even in that

case I would not marry you against his wishes. Perhaps I am proud and

sinful; but, Louis, I could never enter a family who would not be

willing to receive me. Besides, my duty is here with Miss Hagar. If I

were to marry you, what would become of her, alone and childless. No,

Louis, I am not so utterly selfish and ungrateful. Do not urge me

further, as I see you are about to do, for my resolution is unalterable.

Yielding as my nature naturally is, I can be firm at times; and in this

case, nothing that you can say will alter my determination."

He stood erect before her, his fine face clouded with anger and

mortification.

"This, then, is your last resolve?" he said, coldly.

"It is. Dear Louis, forgive me if I have caused you pain. Believe me, it

has grieved me deeply to be obliged to speak thus," she said, laying her

hand upon his arm, and looking up pleadingly, sorrowfully, in his face.

"Oh! do not trouble yourself about grieving me, fair Celeste," he said,

scornfully; "the glamour has faded from my eyes, that is all. I fancied

you little less than an angel. I was fool enough to believe you loved me

well enough to brave even the opinion of the world for my sake. I find

you are only a woman, after all, with more pride and ambition than love

for me. Well, be it so. I have never sued for the favor of any one yet,

and cannot begin now. Farewell, Celeste; forgive me for trespassing thus

long upon your time, but it will be long before it happens again."

He turned away with a haughty bow. She saw he was angry, disappointed

and deeply mortified, and tears sprang to her gentle eyes.

"Oh, Louis!" was all she could say, as sobs choked her utterance.

He turned round and stood gazing coldly upon her.

"Well, Miss Pearl," he said, calmly.

"Oh, Louis! _dear_ Louis! forgive me! do not be angry with your

Celeste. Oh, Louis! I am sorry I have offended you."

"I am not angry, Miss Pearl; only a little disappointed. You have a

perfect right to reject me if you choose. My only regret is that I

should have troubled you so long. I have the honor to wish you

good-day."

And with the last bitter words he sprang on his horse, and in a few

minutes was out of sight.

All Celeste's fortitude gave way then; and sinking on a seat, she hid

her face in her hands and wept the bitterest tears she had ever shed in

her life. Louis was gone, and in anger, believing her proud, artful, and

fickle--perhaps he would love her no more; and her bosom heaved with

convulsive sobs at the thought.

All that day and the next, and the next, Louis came not. How wearily the

hours dragged on while she sat listening in vain for his coming. Taking

her work, she would sit by the window commanding a view of the road, and

strain her eyes in the fruitless endeavor to catch a glimpse of his

tall, elegant figure. At every noise she would start convulsively, and a

wild thrill would dart through her heart, in the hope that it might be

his footsteps. Then sinking back disappointed, she would close her eyes

to force back the gathering tears, and strive to keep down the choking

sensation that would arise to her throat. And when night fell, and still

he came not, unable longer to restrain herself, she would hastily seek

her own chamber, and weep and sob until, utterly prostrated in mind and

body, the morning would find her pale, ill, and languid, with slow step

and heavy, dimmed eyes.

The morning of the fourth day came, and this suspense was growing

intolerable. Breakfast had passed untasted, and suffering with a dull,

throbbing headache, she was about to quit the room, when the sound of a

horse's hoofs thundering down the road made her leap to her feet with a

wild thrill of joy that sent new light to her, eyes and new color to her

cheeks.

"He is come! he is come!" she exclaimed, rushing to the door. A cry of

disappointment almost escaped her, as her eye fell on Gipsy in the act

of dismounting.

"Here I am, all alive, like a bag of grasshoppers," exclaimed Gipsy, as,

gathering her riding-habit in her hand, she tripped with her usual airy

motion up the garden walk. "How have you been this age, Celeste? My

stars! how pale you are; have you been ill?"

"I have not been very well for the past week," said Celeste, forcing a

smile. "I am very glad to see you. Come in."

Gipsy entered; and having saluted Miss Hagar, threw herself into a

chair, and snatching off her hat, began swinging it by the strings.

Celeste took her sewing and seated herself by the window.

"Well, I declare! we have had such times up at the Hall this week," said

Gipsy. "Have you heard how I captured Big Tom?"

"No," said Celeste, in surprise; whereupon Gipsy related what had

occurred, ending with:

"Old Mrs. Donne is still very sick, and raves at an appalling rate about

babies, and snow-storms, and all such stuff. Big Tom's in prison,

rapidly recovering from his wounds, which is good news for me; for I

should be sorry to think I had killed the poor wretch. I should have

come over to see you sooner, only Louis is going away, and we've all

been as busy as nailers."

"Going away!" echoed Celeste, growing deadly pale.

"Yes; he leaves here to-morrow morning. He is going to Italy, and will

not be back for several years. But, my goodness! Celeste, what's the

matter? You look as though you were going to faint!"

"It's nothing--only a sudden spasm," said Celeste, in a low, smothered

voice, dropping her forehead on her hand, while her long, golden

ringlets, falling like a vail over her face, hid it from view.

"The notion took him so suddenly," continued Gipsy, "that we have

scarcely begun to recover from our astonishment yet. It's no use trying

to coax him not to go, for he puts on that iron face of his, and says,

'the thing's decided.' Men of genius always are a queer crotchety set,

they say. Thank Minerva, I'm not a genius, anyway--one of that sort's

enough in any family. Minnette, too, went off the other day with the

Carsons for Washington--good riddance of bad rubbish, I say. So, when

Louis goes, I'll be alone in my glory, and you must come over and spend

a few days with me. Won't you, Celeste?"

There was no reply. Gipsy gazed in wonder and alarm at her, as she sat

still and motionless as a figure in marble.

"Celeste! Celeste! what's the matter?" she said, going over and trying

to raise her head. "Are you sick, or fainting, or what?"

Celeste looked up, and Gipsy started back as she saw that white,

despairing face, and wild, anguished eyes.

"You are ill, Celeste," she said, in alarm. "Your hands are like ice,

and your face is cold as death. Come, let me assist you to your room."

"Thank you--I will go myself. I will be better, if let alone," said

Celeste, faintly, as she arose to her feet, and, sick and giddy,

tottered rather than walked from the room.

Gipsy looked after her, perplexed and anxious.

"Well, now, I'd like to know what all this is about," she muttered to

herself. "Wonder if Louis' departure has anything to do with it? They've

had a quarrel, I suppose, and Louis is going off in a huff. Well, it's

none of my business, anyway, so I sha'n't interfere. Louis looked as if

he'd like to murder me when I asked him what he was going to do without

Celeste, and walked off without ever deigning to answer me. But I guess

I ain't afraid of him; and if he hasn't behaved well to poor Celeste,

I'll tell him a piece of my mind anyway before he goes." And the

soliloquizing Gipsy left the house and rode thoughtfully homeward.

During the rest of that day and night Celeste did not leave her room.

Miss Hagar grew anxious, and several times came to her door to beg

admittance, but the low voice within always said:

"No, no; not now, I will be better to-morrow--only leave me alone."

And, troubled and perplexed, Miss Hagar was forced to yield. Many times

she approached the chamber door to listen, but all within was still as

death--not the faintest sound reached her ear.

"Has Miss Celeste left her room yet?" inquired Miss Hagar, the following

morning, of her sable handmaid, Curly.

"Laws! yes, missus; she comed outen her room 'fore de sun riz dis

mornin': an' I 'clare to goodness! I like to drop when I seed her. She

was jes' as pale as a ghos', wid her eyes sunken right in like, an'

lookin' drefful sick. She'd on her bunnit and shawl, and tole me to tell

you she war agoin' out for a walk. 'Deed, she needed a walk, honey, for

her face was jes' as white as dat ar table-cloff."

"Where was she going?" inquired Miss Hagar, alarmed.

"'Deed, I didn't mind to ax her, 'cause she 'peared in 'stress o' mind

'bout somefin or udder. I looked arter her, dough, an' seed her take de

road down to de shore," replied Curly.

Still more perplexed and troubled by this strange and most unusual

conduct on the part of Celeste, Miss Hagar seated herself at the

breakfast-table, having vainly waited an hour past the usual time for

the return of the young girl.

When Celeste left the cottage, it was with a mind filled with but one

idea--that of seeing Louis once more before he left. But few people were

abroad when she passed through the village; and descending to the beach,

she seated herself behind a projecting rock, where, unseen herself, she

could behold him going away.

Out on the glittering waves, dancing in the first rays of the morning

sunlight, lay a schooner, rising and falling lazily on the swell. It was

the vessel in which Gipsy had told her Louis was to leave St. Mark's,

and Celeste gazed upon it, with that passionate, straining gaze, with

which one might look on a coffin, where the one we love best is about to

be laid. Hours passed on, but she heeded them not, as, seated on a low

rock, with her hands clasped over her knees, she waited for his coming.

After the lapse of some time, a boat put off from the schooner, and,

propelled by the strong arms of four sailors, soon touched shore. Three

of them landed, and took the road leading to Mount Sunset. Half an hour

passed, and they reappeared, laden with trunks and valises, and followed

by Louis and Gipsy.

He seemed careless, even gay, while Gipsy wore a sad, troubled look, all

unused to her. Little did either of them dream of the wild, despairing

eyes watching them, as if her very life were concentrated in that

agonizing gaze.

"Well, good-bye, _ma belle_," said Louis, with a last embrace. "You

perceive my boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea, and I must

away."

"Good-bye," repeated Gipsy, mechanically.

He turned away and walked toward the boat, entered it, and the seamen

pushed off. Gipsy stood gazing after his tall, graceful form until the

boat reached the schooner, and he ascended the deck. Then it danced away

in the fresh morning breeze down the bay, until it became a mere speck

in the distance, and then faded altogether from view.

Dashing away a tear, Gipsy turned to ascend the rocks, when the flutter

of a muslin dress from behind a cliff caught her eye. With a vague

presentiment flashing across her mind, she approached to see who it was.

And there she beheld Celeste, lying cold and senseless on the sand.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"THE QUEEN OF SONG."

"Give me the boon of love--

Renown is but a breath,

Whose loudest echo ever floats

From out the halls of death.

A loving eye beguiles me more

Than Fame's emblazon'd seal;

And one sweet note of tenderness,

Than triumph's wildest peal."--TUCKERMAN.

"Oranmore, my dear fellow, welcome back to Italy!" exclaimed a

distinguished-looking man, as Louis--the day after his arrival in

Venice--was passing through one of the picturesque streets of that

"palace-crowned city."

"Ah, Lugari! happy to see you!" said Louis, extending his hand, which

was cordially grasped.

"When did you arrive?" asked the Italian, as, linking his arm through

that of Louis, they strolled toward the "Bridge of the Rialto."

"Only yesterday. My longings for Venice were too strong to be resisted;

so I returned."

"Then you have not heard our 'Queen of Song' yet?" inquired his

companion.

"No. Who is she?"

"An angel! a seraph! the loveliest woman you ever beheld!--sings like a

nightingale, and has everybody raving about her!"

"Indeed! And what is the name of this paragon?"

"She is called Madame Evelini--a widow, I believe--English or American

by birth. She came here as poor as Job and as proud as Lucifer. Now,

she has made a fortune on the stage; but is as proud as ever. Half the

men at Venice are sighing at her feet; but no icicle ever was colder

than she--it is impossible to warm her into love. There was an English

duke here not long ago, who--with reverence be it spoken!--had more

money than brains, and actually went so far as to propose marriage; and,

to the amazement of himself and everybody else, was most decidedly and

emphatically rejected."

"A wonderful woman, indeed, to reject a ducal crown. When does she

sing?"

"To-night. You must come with me and hear her."

"With pleasure. Look, Lugari--what a magnificent woman that is!"

"By St. Peter! it's the very woman we are speaking of--Madame Evelini

herself!" exclaimed Lugari. "Come, we'll join her. I have the pleasure

of her acquaintance. Take a good look at her first, and tell me if she

does not justify my praises."

Louis, with some curiosity, scrutinized the lady they were approaching.

She was about the middle height, with an exquisitely-proportioned

figure--a small, fair, but somewhat melancholy face, shaded by a

profusion of pale-brown ringlets. Her complexion was exquisitely fair,

with dark-blue eyes and beautifully chiseled features. As he gazed, a

strange, vague feeling, that he had seen that face somewhere before,

flashed across his mind.

"Well, what do you think of her?" said Lugari, rousing him from a

reverie into which he was falling.

"That she is a very lovely woman--there can be but one opinion about

that."

"How old would you take her to be?"

"About twenty, or twenty-three at the most."

"Phew! she's over thirty."

"Oh, impossible!"

"Fact, sir; I had it from her own lips. Now, I'll present you; but take

care of your heart, my boy--few men can resist the fascinations of the

Queen of Song."

"I have a counter-charm," said Louis, with a cold smile.

"The memory of some fairer face in America, I suppose. Well, we shall

see. Good-morning, Madame Evelini," he said, acknowledging that lady's

salutation. "Charming day. Allow me to present to you my friend Mr.

Oranmore."

From the first moment the lady's eyes had fallen on the face of Louis,

she had gazed as if fascinated. Every trace of color slowly faded from

her face, leaving her cold and pale as marble. As his name was uttered

she reeled, as if she were faint, and grasped the arm of Lugari for

support.

"_Whom_ did you say?" she asked, in a breathless voice.

"Mr. Oranmore, a young American," replied Lugari, looking in amazement

from the lady to Louis--who, quite as much amazed as himself, stood

gazing upon her, lost in wonder.

"Oranmore!" she exclaimed, unheeding their looks--"Oranmore! Surely not

Barry Oranmore?"

"That was my father's name," replied the astonished Louis.

A low cry broke from the white lips of the lady, as her hands flew up

and covered her face. Lugari and Louis gazed in each other's faces in

consternation. She dropped her hands at last, and said, in a low,

hurried voice:

"Excuse this agitation, Mr. Oranmore. Can I have the pleasure of a

private interview with you?"

"Assuredly, madam," said the astonished Louis.

"Well, call at my residence in the Palazzo B----, this afternoon. And

now I must ask you to excuse me, gentlemen. Good-morning."

She hurried away, leaving the two young men overwhelmed with amazement.

"What the deuce does this mean?" said Lugari.

"That's more than I can tell. I'm as much in the dark as you are."

"She cannot have fallen in love with him already," said Lugari, in the

musing tone of one speaking to himself.

Louis laughed.

"Hardly, I think. I cannot expect to succeed where a royal duke failed."

"There's no accounting for a woman's whims; and he's confoundedly

good-looking," went on Lugari, in the same meditative tone.

"Come, Antonio, none of your nonsense," said Louis. "Come with me to my

studio, and spend the morning with me. It will help to pass the time

until the hour for calling on her ladyship."

They soon reached the residence of the artist. The door was opened for

them by a boy of such singular beauty, that Lugari stared at him in

surprise and admiration. His short, crisp, black curls fell over a brow

of snowy whiteness, and his pale face looked paler in contrast with his

large, melancholy, black eyes.

"Well, Isadore," said Louis kindly, "has there been any one here since?"

"No, signor," replied the boy, dropping his eyes, while a faint color

rose to his cheek, as he met the penetrating gaze of the stranger.

"That will do, then. Bring wine and cigars, and leave us."

The boy did as directed, and hurried from the room.

"Handsome lad, that," said Lugari, carelessly. "Who is he?"

"Isadore something--I forget what. He _is_, as you say, remarkably

handsome."

"He is not a Venetian?"

"No; English, I believe. I met him in Naples, friendless and nearly

destitute, and took charge of him. Have a glass of wine?"

Lugari looked keenly in the face of his friend with a peculiar smile,

that seemed to say: "Yes--I understand it perfectly;" but Louis, busy in

lighting a cigar, did not observe him.

The morning passed rapidly away in gay conversation; and at the hour

appointed, Louis sat in one of the magnificent rooms of the Palazzo

B----, awaiting the entrance of the singer.

She soon made her appearance, quite bewitching in blue silk, but looking

paler, he thought, than when he had seen her in the morning.

"I see you are punctual," she said, holding out her hand, with a slight

smile. "Doubtless you are at your wits' end trying to account for my

singular conduct."

"My only wonder is, madam, how I could have merited so great an honor."

"Ah! I knew you would say something like that," said the lady.

"Insincere, like the rest of your sex. Well, you shall not be kept long

in suspense. I have sent for you here to tell you my history."

"Madam!" exclaimed Louis, in surprise.

"Yes, even so. It concerns you more nearly, perhaps, than you think.

Listen, now."

She leaned her head in her hand, and, for a moment, seemed lost in

thought; while Louis, with eager curiosity, waited for her to begin.

"I am Irish by birth," she said, at last, looking up; "I was born in

Galway. My father was a poor farmer, and I was his only child. I grew up

a wild, untutored country girl; and reached the age of fifteen, knowing

sorrow and trouble only by name.

"My occupation, sometimes, was watching my father's sheep on the

mountain. One day, as I sat merrily singing to myself, a horseman,

attracted by my voice, rode up and accosted me. I was bold and fearless,

and entered into conversation with him as if I had known him all my

life--told him my name and residence; and learned, in return, that he

was a young American of respectable and wealthy connections, who had

visited Galway to see a friend.

"From that day forth, he was constantly with me; and I soon learned to

watch for his coming as I had never watched for any one before. He was

rash, daring, and passionate; and, captivated by my beauty (for I _was_

handsome then), he urged me to marry him privately, and fly with him. I

had never learned to control myself in anything; and loving him with a

passion that has never yet died out, I consented. I fled with him to

England. There we were secretly wedded. He took me to France, where we

remained almost a year--a year of bliss to me. Then he received letters

demanding his immediate presence in America. He would have left me

behind him, and returned for me again; but I refused to leave him; I

therefore accompanied him to his native land, and a few weeks after--one

stormy Christmas Eve--my child, a daughter, was born.

"I never saw it but once. The nurse must have drugged me--for I have a

dim recollection of a long, long sleep, that seemed endless; and when I

awoke, I found myself in a strange room with the face of a strange woman

bending over me. To my wild, bewildered inquiries, she answered, that I

had been very ill, and my life despaired of for several weeks; but that

I was now recovering. I asked for my husband and child. She knew nothing

of them, she said. I had been brought there in a carriage, after night,

by a man whose features she could not recognize--he was so muffled up.

He had paid her liberally for taking charge of me, and promised to

return to see me in a few weeks.

"I was a child in years and wisdom, and suspected nothing. I felt angry

at his desertion, and cried like the petted child I was, at his absence.

The woman was very kind to me, though I saw she looked upon me with a

sort of contempt, the reason of which I did not then understand. Still,

she took good care of me, and in a fortnight I was as well as ever.

"One evening, I sat in my room silent and alone (for _I_ was not

permitted to go out), and crying like a spoiled baby, when the sound of

a well-known voice reached my ear from the adjoining room. With a cry of

joy, I sprang to my feet, rushed from the room, and fell into the arms

of my husband. In my joy at meeting him, I did not perceive, at first,

the change those few weeks had made in him. He was pale and haggard, and

there was an unaccountable something in his manner that puzzled me. He

was not less affectionate; but he seemed wild, and restless, and ill at

ease.

"My first inquiry was for my child.

"'It is dead, Eveleen,' he answered, hurriedly; 'and you were so ill

that it became necessary to bring you here. Now that you are better, you

must leave this and come with me.'

"'And you will publicly proclaim our marriage, and we will not be

separated more?' I eagerly inquired.

"He made no answer, save to urge me to make haste. In a few moments I

was ready; a carriage at the door. He handed me in, then followed, and

we drove rapidly away.

"'Where are we going?' I asked, as we drove along.

"'Back to Ireland; you are always wishing to return.'

"'But you will go with me, will you not?' I asked, in vague alarm.

"'Yes, yes; to be sure,' he answered, quickly. Just then, the murmur of

the sea reached my ear; the carriage stopped, and my husband assisted me

out.

"A boat was in waiting on the shore. We both entered, and were rowed to

the vessel lying in the harbor. I reached the deck, and was conducted

below to a well-furnished cabin.

"'Now, Eveleen, you look fatigued and must retire to rest. I am going on

deck to join the captain for a few hours,' said my husband, as he gently

kissed my brow. His voice was low and agitated, and I could see his face

was deadly pale. Still, no suspicion of the truth entered my mind. I

was, indeed, tired; and wearily disengaging myself from the arms that

clasped me in a parting embrace, I threw myself on my bed, and in a few

minutes was fast asleep. My husband turned away and went on deck, and--I

never saw him more."

Her voice failed, and her lips quivered; but after a few moments she

went on.

"The next morning the captain entered the cabin and handed me a letter.

I opened it in surprise. A draft for five thousand dollars fell out, but

I saw it not; my eyes were fixed in unspeakable horror on the dreadful

words before me.

"The letter was from my husband. He told me that we were parted forever,

that he had wedded another bride, and that the vessel I was in would

convey me home, where he hoped I would forget him, and look upon the

past year only as a dream. I read that terrible letter from beginning to

end, while every word burned into my heart and brain like fire. I did

not faint nor shriek; I was of too sanguine a temperament to do either;

but I sat in stupefied despair; I was stunned; I could not realize what

had happened. The captain brought me a newspaper, and showed me the

announcement of his marriage to some great beauty and heiress--some Miss

Erliston, who----"

"What!" exclaimed Louis, springing fiercely to his feet. "In the name of

heaven, of whom have you been talking all this time?"

"Of my husband--of your father--of Barry Oranmore!"

He staggered into his seat, horror-stricken and deadly white. There was

a pause, then he said, hoarsely:

"Go on."

"I know not how that voyage passed--it is all like a dream to me. I

reached Liverpool. The captain, who had been well paid, had me conveyed

home; and still I lived and moved like one who lives not. I was in a

stupor of despair, and months passed away before I recovered; when I

did, all my childishness had passed away, and I was in heart and mind a

woman.

"Time passed on. I had read in an American paper the announcement of my

false husband's dreadful death. Years blunted the poignancy of my grief,

and I began to tire of my aimless life. He had often told me my voice

would make my fortune on the stage. Acting on this hint, I went to

London, had it cultivated, and learned music. At last, after years of

unremitting application, I made my _debut_. It was a triumph, and every

fresh attempt crowned me with new laurels. I next visited France; then I

came here; and here I have been ever since. To-day, when I beheld you,

the very image of your father as I knew him first, I almost imagined the

grave had given up its dead. Such is my story--every word true, as

heaven hears me. Was I not right, when I said it concerned you more

nearly than you imagined?"

"Good Heaven! And was my father such a villain?" said Louis, with a

groan.

"Hush! Speak no ill of the dead. I forgave him long ago, and surely you

can do so too."

"Heaven help us all! what a world we live in!" said Louis, while, with a

pang of remorse, his thoughts reverted to Celeste; and he inwardly

thought how similar her fate might have been, had she consented to go

with him.

"And was your child really dead?" he inquired, after a pause, during

which she sat with her eyes fixed sadly on the floor. "He may have

deceived you in that as in other things."

"I know not," she answered; "yet I have always had a sort of

presentiment that it still lives. Oh, if heaven would but permit me to

behold her alive, I could die happy!"

Louis sat gazing upon her with a puzzled look.

"I know not how it is," he said, "but you remind me strangely of some

one I have seen before. I recognize your face, vaguely and indistinctly,

as one does faces they see in dreams. I am _sure_ I have seen some one

resembling you elsewhere."

"Only fancy, I fear," said the lady, smiling, and shaking her head. "Do

you intend hearing me sing to-night?"

"Oh, decidedly! Do you think I would miss what one might make a

pilgrimage round the world to hear once?"

"Flattery! flattery! I see you are like all the rest," said Madame

Evelini, raising her finger reprovingly.

"Not so, madam; I never flatter. And now I regret that a previous

engagement renders it necessary for me to leave you," said Louis, taking

his hat and rising to leave.

"Well, I shall expect to see you soon again," she said, with an

enchanting smile; and Louis, having bowed assent, left the house; and,

giddy and bewildered by what he had just heard, turned in the direction

of his own residence.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

"Fixed was her look and stern her air;

Back from her shoulders streamed her hair;

Her figure seemed to rise more high;

Her voice, Despair's wild energy

Had given a tone of prophecy."--MARMION.

Weeks passed away. Louis became a daily visitor at the Palazzo B----.

His growing intimacy with the beautiful "Queen of Song" was looked upon

with jealous eyes by her numerous admirers; and many were the rumors

circulated regarding her affection for the handsome young American. But

Madame Evelini was either too proud or too indifferent to heed these

reports, and visited Louis in his studio whenever she pleased, leaving

the world to say of her what it listed. Louis, too, was winning fame as

an artist, and, next to madame herself, was becoming one of the

greatest celebrities in Venice.

"What a handsome boy that attendant of yours is!" said the lady, one

day, to Louis, as Isadore quitted the room; "all who visit you vie with

each other in their praises of his beauty."

"Who? Isadore? Yes, he is handsome; but a most singular youth--silent,

taciturn, at times almost fierce, and at others, sullenly morose."

"He seems to have a strong antipathy to ladies, and to me in

particular," said Madame Evelini; "he looks as if he wished to shut the

door in my face every time I come here."

"Yes, that is another of his oddities; in fact, he is quite an

unaccountable lad."

"He is very much attached to _you_, at all events. If he were a woman, I

should say he is in love with you, and jealous of the rest of us," said

madame, laughing. "As it is, it can only be accounted for by ill-nature

on his part. Well, adieu!" said madame, rising to take her leave.