Strangely enough there was nothing to repel, but, on the contrary, everything to attract in the look and manner of the person whose mere presence seemed to exercise such a curiously constraining influence over the wedding-party.  Louis Trudaine was a remarkably handsome man.  His expression was singularly kind and gentle; his manner irresistibly winning in its frank, manly firmness and composure.  His words, when he occasionally spoke, seemed as unlikely to give offense as his looks; for he only opened his lips in courteous reply to questions directly addressed to him.  Judging by a latent mournfulness in the tones of his voice, and by the sorrowful tenderness which clouded his kind, earnest eyes whenever they rested on his sister, his thoughts were certainly not of the happy or the hopeful kind.  But he gave them no direct expression; he intruded his secret sadness, whatever it might be, on no one of his companions.  Nevertheless, modest and self-restrained as he was, there was evidently some reproving or saddening influence in his presence which affected the spirits of every one near him, and darkened the eve of the wedding to bride and bridegroom alike.

As the sun slowly sank in the heavens, the conversation flagged more and more.  After a long silence, the bridegroom was the first to start a new subject.

“Rose, love,” he said, “that magnificent sunset is a good omen for our marriage; it promises another lovely day to-morrow.”

The bride laughed and blushed.

“Do you really believe in omens, Charles?” she said.

“My dear,” interposed the old lady, before her son could answer, “if Charles does believe in omens, it is nothing to laugh at.  You will soon know better, when you are his wife, than to confound him, even in the slightest things, with the common herd of people.  All his convictions are well founded—­so well, that if I thought he really did believe in omens, I should most assuredly make up my mind to believe in them too.”

“I beg your pardon, madame,” Rose began, tremulously, “I only meant—­”

“My dear child, have you so little knowledge of the world as to suppose that I could be offended—­”

“Let Rose speak,” said the young man.

He turned round petulantly, almost with the air of a spoiled child, to his mother, as he said those words.  She had been looking fondly and proudly on him the moment before.  Now her eyes wandered disconcertedly from his face; she hesitated an instant with a sudden confusion which seemed quite foreign to her character, then whispered in his ear,

“Am I to blame, Charles, for trying to make her worthy of you?”

Her son took no notice of the question.  He only reiterated sharply, “Let Rose speak.”

“I really had nothing to say,” faltered the young girl, growing more and more confused.

“Oh, but you had!”

There was such an ungracious sharpness in his voice, such an outburst of petulance in his manner as he spoke, that his mother gave him a warning touch on the arm, and whispered “Hush!”