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. Nevershone the sun brighter, never looked St. Mark's fairer; but withinSunset Hall all is silent and gloomy. The very servants step around ontiptoe, with hushed voices and noiseless footfalls. The squire is not inhis 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 deadlypale, with sternly-compressed lips, and sad, gloomy eyes. Celeste iskneeling like one in prayer, her face buried in her hands; she, too, ispale with awe and horror. To-day, Dr. Wiseman _dies on the scaffold_.They needed no evidence to condemn him. Fear seemed to have paralyzedhis cowardly soul, and he confessed all; and from the moment he heardhis sentence, he settled down in a stupor of despair, from which nothingcould arouse him.
The sound of carriage-wheels coming up the avenue roused them both, atlast. Celeste sprang to her feet, and both stood breathless, when thedoor opened, and Squire Erliston entered.
"Well?" came from the eager lips of Gipsy.
"All is over," said the squire, gloomily, sinking into a seat. "Ivisited him in prison, but he did not know me--he only stared at me witha 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 armsbefore him, as well as his chains would allow, and cried out, in a voiceof agony I will never forget: 'Keep her off! keep her off! she willmurder me!' Seeing I could do nothing for him, I came away; and in thatstate of stupid insensibility, he was launched into eternity."
Celeste, sick and faint with terror, sank into a seat and covered herface with her hands, and Gipsy shuddered slightly.
"And so he has perished--died in his sins," she said, at last. "Once, Ivowed never to forgive him; but I retract that oath. May heaven forgivehim, 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?" saidCeleste, looking up.
"It is most strange what can have become of her," said the squire. "Ihave 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 sheis, yet I feel a sort of presentiment we will meet her again."
* * * * *
"Gipsy, come here," called good Mrs. Gower, one day, about a fortnightafter, 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 tothe 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 hadblue eyes and yellow hair, I should say it looked remarkably likemyself--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 beyour mother's picture."
"My mother's picture! My dear Aunty Gower, whatever put such an absurdnotion 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. "Whoknows whether the original be living or dead? Oh, Aunty Gower! it may bethat I still have a mother living in some quarter of the globe, who isignorant she yet has a daughter alive. If I could only think so I wouldtravel the world over to find her."
At this moment Totty burst into the room, her black face all aglow withdelight.
"Oh, misses! Oh, Misses Sour! Oh, Misses Gipsy! guess who's 'rived," shebreathlessly 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, burstinto the parlor, and beheld Louis standing in the middle of the floor,and the living counterpart of the picture she had just seen, leaning onhis arm!
"Gipsy! my sister!" he exclaimed, but before he could advance towardher, a wild, passionate cry broke from the lips of the strange lady, asshe sprang forward, and clasped the astonished Gipsy in her arms.
"My daughter! my daughter!" she cried, covering her face with burningkisses.
Gipsy grew deadly pale; she strove to speak; but wonder and joy chainedher ever-ready tongue.
"She is your mother, Gipsy," said Louis, answering her wild look. "Ileave 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-roomdoor; Celeste was there, but not reading. She was lying on a lounge, herface hidden in the cushions, her hands clasped over her eyes to repressher falling tears, her heart yearning for the living and the dead. Herthoughts were of him she believed far away; what were wealth and honorsto her, without him? Her tears fell fast and faster, while sheinvoluntarily 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 lookedup--looked up to encounter those dear, dark eyes, she had never expectedto see more.
Great was the surprise of everybody, at this double arrival; and manywere the explanations that followed.
There was Louis, who had to explain how he had met Madame Evelini, andhow he had learned her story; and how, on reading Gipsy's account of thetale 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 thefate of Minnette, and set their anxiety as rest about her. She had goneto Italy with some friends, he said; he met her there, and learned fromher 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 hisdeparture--which was but briefly touched upon in her letters.
It was a strange meeting, when the two living wives of the dead husbandstood face to face. Lizzie, too listless and languid to betray muchemotion of any kind, listened with faint curiosity; but tears spranginto the eyes of Madame Evelini, as she stooped to kiss the pale brow ofthe little lady. She refused to be called Mrs. Oranmore; saying thatLizzie had held the title longest, and it should still be hers.
"And now there is one other matter to arrange," said Louis, taking thehand of Celeste; "and that is, your consent to our union. Will youbestow upon me, sir, the hand of your grandchild?"
"To be sure, I will," said the squire, joyfully. "I was just going topropose, myself, that we should end the play with a wedding. We've allbeen in the dismals long enough, but a marriage will set us all rightagain. Come here, you baggage," turning to Celeste, who was blushingmost becomingly; "will you have this graceless scamp, here, for yourlord and master? He needs somebody to look after him, or he'll berunning to Timbuctoo, or Italy, or some of those heathenish places,to-morrow or next day--just as he did before. Do you consent to takecharge 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 thewedding takes place forthwith. Where's the good of losing time? 'Neverdelay till to-morrow what you can do to-day,' as Solomon says. What'syour opinion, good folks?"
"Mine's decidedly the same as yours, sir," said L
ouis, promptly.
"Then suppose the affair comes off to-morrow," said the squire, in abusiness-like tone.
"Oh! no, no!" said Celeste, with such a look of alarm, that the otherslaughed outright; "a month--two months--"
"Nonsense," said the squire, gruffly, "two months indeed--no, nor twoweeks, either. Next Thursday, at the furthest. You can have all yourtrumpery ready by that time."
"You will have to yield, Celeste," said Gipsy. "Just see how imploringlyLouis looks!"
"That's too soon," said Celeste, still pleading for a reprieve. "I nevercould be ready----"
"Yes, you could," cut in Gipsy. "I'll engage to have everythingprepared; and, like Marshal Ney, when I enter the field, the battle iswon. 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 nouse 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 Ihave got to lay our heads together (figuratively speaking); for on ourshoulders, I suppose, must devolve all the bother and bustle ofpreparation."
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 ofthe question; but still they had a busy time of it in Sunset Hall. Itwas arranged that the newly-wedded pair should go abroad immediatelyafter their marriage, accompanied by Gipsy and her mother.
The wedding-day dawned, bright and beautiful, as all wedding-daysshould. Celeste wished to be married in the church, and no one thoughtof opposing her will. Gipsy stood beside her, robed in white; and if herface rivaled in pallor the dress she wore, it was thinking of her owngloomy bridal, and of him who had bade her an eternal farewell thatnight. Mrs. Gower was there, looking very fat, and happy, andrespectable, in the venerable brown satin, that was never donned save onan occasion like the present. Lizzie was there, too, supported by MadameEvelini, and looking less listless and far more cheerful than she hadbeen for many a day. There was the squire, looking very pompous anddogmatical, waiting to give the bride away, and repeating, inwardly, allthe proverbs he could recollect, by way of offering up a prayer fortheir happiness. There was Louis, so tall, and stately, and handsome,looking the very happiest individual in existence. And lastly, there wasour own Celeste--our "Star of the Valley"--sweeter and fairer than ever,with her blushing face, and drooping eyes, and gentle heart flutteringwith joy and happiness.
The church was crowded to excess; and a universal buzz of admirationgreeted the bridal pair, as they entered. Beneath the gaze of a hundredeyes 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 andhappy 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 thespot, 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 lonelygrave; 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 theworld do they manage to make everything look so funny? This gondola, orwhatever 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 asshooting. 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 topitching 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 theguidance of Louis, they were going, in a body, to visit Minnette.
They reached the convent, and were admitted by the old portress--who, asif it were a matter of course, ushered them into the chapel and leftthem.
For a moment, the whole party stood still in awe. The church was hungwith black, and dimly lighted by wax tapers. Clouds of incense filledthe air, and the black-robed figures of the nuns looked like shadows, asthey knelt in prayer. Many strangers were present, but a deep, solemnhush 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 layin state. The beautiful face, shaded by the long, black vail, wore anexpression of heavenly peace; the white hands clasped a crucifix to thecold breast. A nun stood at her head, and another at her feet--holdinglighted tapers in their hands--so still and motionless, that theyresembled 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 everlooked 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, mournfulwail of the organ; and like a wild cry, many voices chanted forth thedirge:
"_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 Celesteclung, pale and trembling, to his arm. And together they quitted theconvent.
They were followed by one, who, leaning against a pillar, had watchedthem intently all the time. He stepped after them into the street; andLouis, 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 wasindeed our old friend Archie--no longer the laughing, fun-loving Archieof 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 drewback, turning first red, and then pale, and then red again. MadameEvelini, alone, looked very much puzzled what to make of the wholeaffair.
"Surely, you have not forgotten your old friend, Gipsy?" said Louis, atlast, stepping aside and placing them face to face.
"I am happy to meet you again, Mrs. Wiseman," said Archie, bowingcoldly.
"Well, if you _are_," said Louis, looking at him with a doubtfulexpression, "your looks most confoundedly belie your words. Let mepresent 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 thestrange 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 MissHagar were dead?"
"Dead!" said Archie, starting, and looking at Gipsy, whose face was nowhidden by her vail.
"Yes; but I see you know nothing about it. Come home wi
th us, and youshall hear all."
"Yes, do," urged Celeste; "Louis and I will be delighted to have youjoin us."
"Louis and _I_," repeated Archie, rather mischievously; "then I perceiveI have the honor of addressing Mrs. Oranmore."
Of course, Celeste laughed and blushed, according to the rule in suchcases. But the scene they had just witnessed had saddened the wholeparty; and the journey back was performed in silence. Gipsy was thegravest of all; and, leaning back in the gondola, with her vail over herface, she never condescended to open her lips, save when directlyaddressed; 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 sheabhorred, and the terrible retribution that befell the murderer, mattersbegan to assume a different appearance. Mr. Rivers had long been of theopinion that "it is not good for man to be alone," and firmly believedin the scriptural injunction of becoming a husband of one wife; andconcluded, 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'mjust going to get married at dear old St. Mark's, and no place else; andgive Aunty Gower a chance to give her brown satin dress anotherairing--as ours is likely to be the last wedding at Sunset Hall for sometime, unless Guardy takes it into his head to get married. Now, youneedn't coax; I won't have you till we get home, that's flat." And tothis resolution she adhered, in spite of all his persuasions.
The bridal tour was, of necessity, much shortened by the desperate hasteof Archie--who, like the man with the cork leg, seemed unable to rest inany place; and tore like a comet through Europe, and breathed not freelyuntil they stood once more on American soil.
And three weeks after, a wedding took place at St. Mark's, thatsurpassed everything of the kind that had ever been heard of before.Good Aunty Gower was in ecstasies; and the squire, before the partydispersed, full of champagne and emotion, arose to propose a toast.
"Ladies and fellow-citizens: On the present interesting occasion, I riseto"--here the speaker took a pinch of snuff--"I rise to"--here a violentsneeze 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 andhappiness of the bride and bridegroom;" (cheers) "like the flag of ournative land, long may they wave!" (desperate cheering). "Marriage, likeliberty, is a great institution; and I would advise every single manpresent to try it. If he has heretofore given up the idea, let him pluckup courage and try again. 'Better late than never,' as Solomon says."
THE END.
+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber's Note:-- | | | | Punctuation errors have been corrected. | | | | The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed.| | | | Page 42. excssses changed to excesses. | | (these excesses at last) | | | | Page 47. missing word 'to' added. | | (not long to wait) | | | | Page 57. besure changed to be sure. | | (to be sure you will) | | | | Page 60. natter changed to matter. | | (what's the matter?" said Lizzie) | | | | Page 94. inignantly changed to indignantly. | | (indignantly exclaimed Gipsy) | | | | Page 121. necesstiy changed to necessity. | | (there's no necessity) | | | | Page 126. vanishsd changed to vanished. | | (looks of surprise vanished) | | | | Page 132. she changed to he. | | (For a moment he expected) | | | | Page 188. But changed to Out. | | (Out with the boats) | | | | Page 194. duplicate word 'he' removed. | | (after he had answered) | | | | Page 225. momory changed to memory. | | (by the memory of all) | | | | Page 275. gilt changed to gift. | | (his parting gift) | | | | Page 281. absense changed to absence | | (me during your absence) | | | | Page 283. under changed to until. | | (you did love me, until this) | | | | Page 289. woman changed to women. | | (when two jealous women love each other) | | | | Page 309. object changed to objects. | | (an old man objects to your want) | | | | Page 384. guardy changed to Guardy | | (unless Guardy takes it into his head) | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+
Sharing Her Crime: A Novel Page 40
