The sight imparted new energy to her drooping limbs; and hurrying still more rapidly forward, in five minutes more she stood before the astonished inmates of the hall, all white with falling snow.
For a wonder Gipsy was at home. She sat gazing into the glowing fire – a sad, dreamy look on her usually bright, dark face – her little hands folded listlessly in her lap, thinking of one far away; the squire, utterly disregarding all the laws of etiquette, was smoking his pipe placidly in his arm-chair; and Mrs. Gower sat dozing in the chimney corner; Lizzie had been driven to her chamber by the choking fumes of the tobacco.
"Good Heavens! Celeste! what has happened? What has brought you out to-night in this storm?" exclaimed Gipsy, springing in dismay to her feet, as Celeste – her garments covered with snow-flakes – stood before them, like a moving frost-maiden.
The squire, equally dismayed, had taken his pipe from his mouth, and sat staring at her in utter bewilderment; while Mrs. Gower, roused from her slumbers, arose from her seat, and drew her over to the fire.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Gower, I cannot sit," said Celeste, hurriedly. "Miss Hagar is dying, and has an important revelation to make to you, sir. It is necessary you should hear it. Will you accompany me back?" she said, turning to the squire.
"Dying! important revelations! Lord bless me!" ejaculated the squire; "won't it do to-morrow?" he added, as a wild blast made the windows rattle. "I don't care about venturing out in this storm."
"You shall go, Guardy," said Gipsy, rising impetuously, "and I'll go, too. Sit down and warm yourself, Celeste – we'll be ready in five minutes. Aunty Gower, please ring for Jupe. Pity if you can't venture out in the storm, when Celeste has walked here in it to tell you. Jupe," she added, as that sable individual entered, "be off and bring round the carriage, and don't be longer than five minutes, at your peril! Here, Totty! Totty! bring down my hood, and mantle, and furs; and your master's hat, gloves, and greatcoat. Quick, there!"
Utterly bewildered by the rapidity with which these orders were given, the squire, unable to resist, found himself enveloped in his fur-lined greatcoat, seated in the carriage, between the two girls, ere he found voice to protest against such summary proceedings.
The fierceness of the storm, which increased in violence, precluded the possibility of entering into conversation; and the explanation was, therefore, of necessity, deferred until they stood safely within the cozy kitchen of Valley Cottage.
In a few brief words, Celeste gave them to understand that it concerned that "other child," left that eventful Christmas eve on the bleak stormy beach. This was sufficient to rivet their attention; and the squire, in his anxiety and impatience, forced his way into the sick-room, and stood by the bedside of Miss Hagar.
"Sorry to see you so sick, Miss Hagar; 'pon my life I am. I never expected to see you confined to your bed. Celeste – Miss Pearl, I mean – has told me you have something of the greatest importance to communicate to me."
"I do not see how it can possibly concern you, Squire Erliston," said Miss Hagar, faintly; "but since it is Celeste's desire, I have no objection to relate to you what I have already told her. Oh!" said the sufferer, turning over with a groan.
"Curly, leave the room," said Gipsy, who now entered; while Celeste tenderly raised the head of the invalid, and held a strengthening draught to her lips. Brokenly, feebly, and with many interruptions did the dying woman repeat her tale. Wonder, incredulity, and amazement were alternately depicted on the countenances of the squire and Gipsy, as they listened. She ceased at last; and totally exhausted, turned wearily aside.
"Then you, Celeste, are that child. You are the heiress of Sunset Hall! Wonderful! wonderful!" ejaculated Gipsy, pale with breathless interest.
"And my grandchild!" said the squire, gazing upon her like one bewildered.
"Hush!" said Celeste, in a choking voice, "she is dying."
It was even so. The mysterious shadow of death had fallen on that grim face, softening its gaunt outline into a look of strange, deep awe. The eyes had a far-off, mystic gaze, as if striving to behold something dim and distant.
All had fallen on their knees, and Celeste's choking sobs alone broke the silence.
The sound seemed to disturb Miss Hagar. She turned her face, with a troubled look, on the grief-bowed head of the young girl.
"Do not weep for me, Celeste, but for yourself. Who will care for you when I am dead?"
"I will!" said the squire, solemnly; "she is my own flesh and blood, and all that I have is hers. She is the long-lost, the rightful heiress of Mount Sunset Hall."
A smile of ineffable peace settled on that dying face. "Then I can go in peace," she said; "my last care is gone. Good-bye, Celeste. God bless you all! Tell my brother I spoke of him; and ask Minnette to forgive me. Minnette – Minnette – "
The words died away. She spoke no more. Her long, weary pilgrimage was over, and Miss Hagar was at rest.
"Don't cry – don't cry," said the squire, dashing a tear from his own eyes, as he stooped over the grief-convulsed form of Celeste. "She's gone the way of all flesh, the way we must all go some day. Everybody must die, you know; it's only natural they should. 'In the midst of death we are in life,' as Solomon says."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
"LAST SCENE OF ALL."
"Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or snow,
We will stand by each other, however it blow —
Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain,
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain."
Longfellow.
Two months have passed away. It is a balmy, genial day in March. Never shone the sun brighter, never looked St. Mark's fairer; but within Sunset Hall all is silent and gloomy. The very servants step around on tiptoe, with hushed voices and noiseless footfalls. The squire is not in his usual seat, and the parlor is tenanted only by Gipsy and Celeste. The former is pacing up and down the room, with a face almost deadly pale, with sternly-compressed lips, and sad, gloomy eyes. Celeste is kneeling like one in prayer, her face buried in her hands; she, too, is pale with awe and horror. To-day, Dr. Wiseman dies on the scaffold. They needed no evidence to condemn him. Fear seemed to have paralyzed his cowardly soul, and he confessed all; and from the moment he heard his sentence, he settled down in a stupor of despair, from which nothing could arouse him.
The sound of carriage-wheels coming up the avenue roused them both, at last. Celeste sprang to her feet, and both stood breathless, when the door opened, and Squire Erliston entered.
"Well?" came from the eager lips of Gipsy.
"All is over," said the squire, gloomily, sinking into a seat. "I visited him in prison, but he did not know me – he only stared at me with a look of stupid imbecility. I could not arouse him for a long time, until, at last, I mentioned your name, Gipsy; then he held out his arms before him, as well as his chains would allow, and cried out, in a voice of agony I will never forget: 'Keep her off! keep her off! she will murder me!' Seeing I could do nothing for him, I came away; and in that state of stupid insensibility, he was launched into eternity."
Celeste, sick and faint with terror, sank into a seat and covered her face with her hands, and Gipsy shuddered slightly.
"And so he has perished – died in his sins," she said, at last. "Once, I vowed never to forgive him; but I retract that oath. May heaven forgive him, as I do! And now, I never want to hear his name again."
"But Minnette, where can she be? Who will tell her of this?" said Celeste, looking up.
"It is most strange what can have become of her," said the squire. "I have spared no pains to discover her, but, so far, all has been in vain. Heaven alone knows whether she is living or dead."
"It is like her usual eccentricity," said Gipsy. "I know not where she is, yet I feel a sort of presentiment we will meet her again."
"Gipsy, come here," called good Mrs. Gower, one day, about a fortnight after, as that young lady passed by her room on her way down stairs.
"Well, what is it?" said Gipsy, entering, and standing with her back to the door.
"Just look at this likeness; have you ever seen anybody like it?"
Gipsy took it, and looked long and earnestly.
"Well," said she, at length, "if I were a little less tawny, and had blue eyes and yellow hair, I should say it looked remarkably like myself – only I never, the best of times, had such a pretty face."
"Well, I was just struck by its resemblance to you. I think it must be your mother's picture."
"My mother's picture! My dear Aunty Gower, whatever put such an absurd notion into your head?"
"Because I am quite sure it is. Its very resemblance to you proves this; besides, I found it on your poor father's neck when he was dead."
"It is a sweet face," said Gipsy, heaving a wistful little sigh. "Who knows whether the original be living or dead? Oh, Aunty Gower! it may be that I still have a mother living in some quarter of the globe, who is ignorant she yet has a daughter alive. If I could only think so I would travel the world over to find her."
At this moment Totty burst into the room, her black face all aglow with delight.
"Oh, misses! Oh, Misses Sour! Oh, Misses Gipsy! guess who's 'rived," she breathlessly exclaimed.
"Who? who?" exclaimed both, eagerly.
"Young Marse Louis! he's down in de parlor wid – "
But without waiting to hear more, Gipsy sprang from the room, burst into the parlor, and beheld Louis standing in the middle of the floor, and the living counterpart of the picture she had just seen, leaning on his arm!
"Gipsy! my sister!" he exclaimed, but before he could advance toward her, a wild, passionate cry broke from the lips of the strange lady, as she sprang forward, and clasped the astonished Gipsy in her arms.
"My daughter! my daughter!" she cried, covering her face with burning kisses.
Gipsy grew deadly pale; she strove to speak; but wonder and joy chained her ever-ready tongue.
"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:
"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."