"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?"