He rings the bell with the words. A trim maid appears with a quickness that would argue that she had been listening outside the door.
"Put that wedding-veil on Miss Langton," commands her master. "She will be the bride, and also my heiress."
"Miss Reine, let me congratulate you," the girl exclaims, with a heartiness that shows how Reine has won her way since she came to Langton Villa.
In five minutes the veil is on, with the trailing sprays of orange flowers meant for Maud. The rich, white silk, with its lace flounces, makes no inappropriate bridal dress. But Reine stands still, a lovely bride, grown suddenly strangely pale and grave-looking.
"Now, Mary, hunt up the bride's-maids while I go down and notify the minister," adjures Mr. Langton.
They go, and the bride and groom remain alone together. She stands shyly in the center of the room, with drooping eyes, dark, slender, lovely, but strangely unlike the fair and stately Juno Vane Charteris has pictured these many days as his bride.
They speak no word to each other, and the laughing "men and maidens" come in and surround them.
"It is just like a novel," one says; and another: "It serves Maud right," and all agree that it is "just too romantic for anything," and are glad there will be a wedding after all.
But the two principals say nothing in all the babble of idle tongues. Arm in arm they go forward to the marriage altar, side by side they breathe those solemn vows that bind together their antagonistic lives. It is all like a dream to Reine: the wedding march, the wedding flowers, the curious faces, the solemn words, the circle of gold upon her finger. But as she turns to meet the congratulations of the guests, one precious thought is blooming like a full and perfect rose in her passionate heart:
"He is all my own now. I shall not be parted from him to-morrow."