"_Dies irae, dies illa Solvet saeclum in favilla.
Pie Jesu Dominie, Dona eis requiem._"
Not one heart there, but echoed the burden of the grand old hymn:
"Lord of mercy--Jesus blest, Grant thy servant light and rest!"
"Let us go--this scene is too much for you," said Louis, as Celeste clung, pale and trembling, to his arm. And together they quitted the convent.
They were followed by one, who, leaning against a pillar, had watched them intently all the time. He stepped after them into the street; and Louis, suddenly looking up, beheld him.
"Archie!" he cried, in a tone of mingled amazement and delight.
A stifled shriek broke from the lips of Gipsy, at the name. Yes, it was indeed our old friend Archie--no longer the laughing, fun-loving Archie of other days, but looking pale, and thin, and almost stern.
"O, _dear_ Archie! how glad I am to see you again!" exclaimed Celeste, seizing one of his hands, while Louis wrung the other; and Gipsy drew back, turning first red, and then pale, and then red again. Madame Evelini, alone, looked very much puzzled what to make of the whole affair.
"Surely, you have not forgotten your old friend, Gipsy?" said Louis, at last, stepping aside and placing them face to face.
"I am happy to meet you again, Mrs. Wiseman," said Archie, bowing coldly.
"Well, if you _are_," said Louis, looking at him with a doubtful expression, "your looks most confoundedly belie your words. Let me present you to Madame Evelini, Mrs. Wiseman's mother."
"Her mother!" cried the astonished Archie.
"Why, yes. Surely, you don't mean to say you have not heard of the strange events that have lately taken place at St. Mark's?"
"Even so; I am in a state of most lamentable ignorance. I pray you, enlighten me."
"What! have you not even heard that your uncle--Dr. Wiseman--and Miss Hagar were dead?"
"Dead!" said Archie, starting, and looking at Gipsy, whose face was now hidden by her vail.
"Yes; but I see you know nothing about it. Come home with us, and you shall hear all."
"Yes, do," urged Celeste; "Louis and I will be delighted to have you join us."
"Louis and _I_," repeated Archie, rather mischievously; "then I perceive I have the honor of addressing Mrs. Oranmore."
Of course, Celeste laughed and blushed, according to the rule in such cases. But the scene they had just witnessed had saddened the whole party; and the journey back was performed in silence. Gipsy was the gravest of all; and, leaning back in the gondola, with her vail over her face, she never condescended to open her lips, save when directly addressed; and then her answers were much shorter than sweet.
But when they went home, to their hotel, and everything was explained, and he had learned how Gipsy had been forced into a marriage she abhorred, and the terrible retribution that befell the murderer, matters began to assume a different appearance. Mr. Rivers had long been of the opinion that "it is not good for man to be alone," and firmly believed in the scriptural injunction of becoming a husband of one wife; and concluded, by proposing in due form to Gipsy--who, after some pressing, consented to make him happy.
"But not till we go home," was the reply to all his entreaties. "I'm just going to get married at dear old St. Mark's, and no place else; and give Aunty Gower a chance to give her brown satin dress another airing--as ours is likely to be the last wedding at Sunset Hall for some time, unless Guardy takes it into his head to get married. Now, you needn't coax; I won't have you till we get home, that's flat." And to this resolution she adhered, in spite of all his persuasions.
The bridal tour was, of necessity, much shortened by the desperate haste of Archie--who, like the man with the cork leg, seemed unable to rest in any place; and tore like a comet through Europe, and breathed not freely until they stood once more on American soil.
And three weeks after, a wedding took place at St. Mark's, that surpassed everything of the kind that had ever been heard of before.
Good Aunty Gower was in ecstasies; and the squire, before the party dispersed, full of champagne and emotion, arose to propose a toast.
"Ladies and fellow-citizens: On the present interesting occasion, I rise to"--here the speaker took a pinch of snuff--"I rise to"--here a violent sneeze interrupted him, and drew from him the involuntary remark: "Lord!
what a cold I've got!--as I was saying, I rise to propose the health and happiness of the bride and bridegroom;" (cheers) "like the flag of our native land, long may they wave!" (desperate cheering). "Marriage, like liberty, is a great institution; and I would advise every single man present to try it. If he has heretofore given up the idea, let him pluck up courage and try again. 'Better late than never,' as Solomon says."
THE END.