"She is your mother, Gipsy," said Louis, answering her wild look. "I leave her to explain all to you; your letters first revealed all to me.
But Celeste--where is she?"
"In the drawing-room, reading," was the reply.
He hastily quitted the room, and noiselessly opened the drawing-room door; Celeste was there, but not reading. She was lying on a lounge, her face hidden in the cushions, her hands clasped over her eyes to repress her falling tears, her heart yearning for the living and the dead. Her thoughts were of him she believed far away; what were wealth and honors to her, without him? Her tears fell fast and faster, while she involuntarily exclaimed: "Oh, Louis, Louis! where are you now?"
"Here, by your side, Celeste, never to leave it more!" he answered, folding her suddenly in his arms.
"'Twas his own voice, she could not err!
Throughout the breathing world's extent There was but _one_ such voice for her-- So kind, so soft, so eloquent."
With a wild cry, she unclasped her hands from her eyes and looked up--looked up to encounter those dear, dark eyes, she had never expected to see more.
Great was the surprise of everybody, at this double arrival; and many were the explanations that followed.
There was Louis, who had to explain how he had met Madame Evelini, and how he had learned her story; and how, on reading Gipsy's account of the tale told by Mrs. Donne, he had known immediately who was her mother.
Then, though the task was a painful one, he was forced to recur to the fate of Minnette, and set their anxiety as rest about her. She had gone to Italy with some friends, he said; he met her there, and learned from her she was about to take the vail, and there they would find her, safe.
Then Gipsy had to recount, at length, all that had transpired since his departure--which was but briefly touched upon in her letters.
It was a strange meeting, when the two living wives of the dead husband stood face to face. Lizzie, too listless and languid to betray much emotion of any kind, listened with faint curiosity; but tears sprang into the eyes of Madame Evelini, as she stooped to kiss the pale brow of the little lady. She refused to be called Mrs. Oranmore; saying that Lizzie had held the title longest, and it should still be hers.
"And now there is one other matter to arrange," said Louis, taking the hand of Celeste; "and that is, your consent to our union. Will you bestow upon me, sir, the hand of your grandchild?"
"To be sure, I will," said the squire, joyfully. "I was just going to propose, myself, that we should end the play with a wedding. We've all been in the dismals long enough, but a marriage will set us all right again. Come here, you baggage," turning to Celeste, who was blushing most becomingly; "will you have this graceless scamp, here, for your lord and master? He needs somebody to look after him, or he'll be running to Timbuctoo, or Italy, or some of those heathenish places, to-morrow or next day--just as he did before. Do you consent to take charge of him, and keep him in trim for the rest of his life?"
"Ye-es, sir," said Celeste, looking down, and speaking in the slow, hesitating tone of her childhood.
"Hooray! there's a sensible answer for you. Now I propose that the wedding takes place forthwith. Where's the good of losing time? 'Never delay till to-morrow what you can do to-day,' as Solomon says. What's your opinion, good folks?"
"Mine's decidedly the same as yours, sir," said Louis, promptly.
"Then suppose the affair comes off to-morrow," said the squire, in a business-like tone.
"Oh! no, no!" said Celeste, with such a look of alarm, that the others laughed outright; "a month--two months--"
"Nonsense," said the squire, gruffly, "two months indeed--no, nor two weeks, either. Next Thursday, at the furthest. You can have all your trumpery ready by that time."
"You will have to yield, Celeste," said Gipsy. "Just see how imploringly Louis looks!"
"That's too soon," said Celeste, still pleading for a reprieve. "I never could be ready----"
"Yes, you could," cut in Gipsy. "I'll engage to have everything prepared; and, like Marshal Ney, when I enter the field, the battle is won. Now, not another word. Louis, can't you make her hold her tongue?
My dear mother, you must try your eloquence."
"You will have to yield, my dear," said Madame, smiling; "there is no use attempting to resist this impetuous daughter of mine."
"Of course there's not," said Gipsy--"everybody does as I tell them.
Now, Louis, take the future Mrs. Oranmore out of this. Aunty Gower and I have got to lay our heads together (figuratively speaking); for on our shoulders, I suppose, must devolve all the bother and bustle of preparation."
Gipsy was in her element during the rest of the week.
The wedding was to be private--the recent death of Miss Hagar and Dr.
Wiseman rendering the country fashion of a ball in the evening out of the question; but still they had a busy time of it in Sunset Hall. It was arranged that the newly-wedded pair should go abroad immediately after their marriage, accompanied by Gipsy and her mother.
The wedding-day dawned, bright and beautiful, as all wedding-days should. Celeste wished to be married in the church, and no one thought of opposing her will. Gipsy stood beside her, robed in white; and if her face rivaled in pallor the dress she wore, it was thinking of her own gloomy bridal, and of him who had bade her an eternal farewell that night. Mrs. Gower was there, looking very fat, and happy, and respectable, in the venerable brown satin, that was never donned save on an occasion like the present. Lizzie was there, too, supported by Madame Evelini, and looking less listless and far more cheerful than she had been for many a day. There was the squire, looking very pompous and dogmatical, waiting to give the bride away, and repeating, inwardly, all the proverbs he could recollect, by way of offering up a prayer for their happiness. There was Louis, so tall, and stately, and handsome, looking the very happiest individual in existence. And lastly, there was our own Celeste--our "Star of the Valley"--sweeter and fairer than ever, with her blushing face, and drooping eyes, and gentle heart fluttering with joy and happiness.
The church was crowded to excess; and a universal buzz of admiration greeted the bridal pair, as they entered. Beneath the gaze of a hundred eyes they moved up the aisle, and
"Before the altar now they stand--the bridegroom and the bride; And who can tell what lovers feel in this, their hour of pride."
A few words and all was over; and leaning on the arm of the proud and happy Louis, Celeste received the congratulations of her friends.
Breakfast awaited them on their return to the hall. Immediately after, they were to start for Washington; but before departing, Celeste, turning to Louis, said:
"Before I go, I would visit the grave of poor Miss Hagar. Come with me."
It was not far from Sunset Hall. A white marble tombstone marked the spot, bearing the inscription:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HAGAR WISEMAN.
And underneath were the words:
"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord."
Tears fell fast from the eyes of Celeste, as she knelt by that lonely grave; but they were not all tears of sorrow.
"And this is Venice! Bless me! what a queer-looking old place!"
exclaimed Gipsy, lying back amid the cushions of a gondola. "How in the world do they manage to make everything look so funny? This gondola, or whatever they call it, is quite a comfortable place to go to sleep in.
I'll bring one of them home to sail on the bay--I will, as sure as shooting. Maybe it won't astonish the natives, slightly. Well this _is_ a nice climate, and no mistake. I don't think I'd have any objection to pitching my tent here, myself. What's this the poet says--
"If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, Think, think what a heaven she would make of this 'ere!"
"Oh, what a shame! to parody the 'Light of the Harem,'" said Celeste, laughing. "But here we are, on land."
It was the day after their arrival in Venice; and, now, under the guidance of Louis, they were going, in a body, to visit Minnette.
They reached the convent, and were admitted by the old portress--who, as if it were a matter of course, ushered them into the chapel and left them.
For a moment, the whole party stood still in awe. The church was hung with black, and dimly lighted by wax tapers. Clouds of incense filled the air, and the black-robed figures of the nuns looked like shadows, as they knelt in prayer. Many strangers were present, but a deep, solemn hush reigned around.
The cause of all this was soon explained. At the foot of the altar, robed in her nun's dress, the lifeless form of one of the sisterhood lay in state. The beautiful face, shaded by the long, black vail, wore an expression of heavenly peace; the white hands clasped a crucifix to the cold breast. A nun stood at her head, and another at her feet--holding lighted tapers in their hands--so still and motionless, that they resembled statues.
_It was Minnette!_ Their hearts almost ceased to beat, as they gazed.
The look of deep calm--of child-like rest--on her face, forbade sorrow, but inspired awe. More lovely, and far more gentle than she had ever looked in life, she lay, with a smile still wreathing the sweet, beautiful lips. The blind eyes saw at last.
Suddenly, the deep, solemn stillness was broken, by the low, mournful wail of the organ; and like a wild cry, many voices chanted forth the dirge: