CHAPTER XVI.
THE BRIDE OF AN HOUR.
It was a clear, cold, sharp, invigorating winter morning. The snow was crusted over with hoar frost, and the bare forest trees were hung with icicles. The cunning fox, the 'possum and the 'coon, crept shivering from their dens; but the shy, gray rabbit, and the tiny, brown wood-mouse, still nestled in their holes. And none of nature's small children ventured from their nests, save the hardy and courageous little snow-birds that came to seek their food even at the very threshold of their natural enemy—man.
The approaching sun had scarcely as yet reddened the eastern horizon, or flushed the snow, when at Locust Hill our travelers assembled in the dining-room, to partake of their last meal previous to setting forth.
Commodore Waugh, and Mrs. L'Oiseau, who were fated to remain at home and keep house, were also there to see the travelers off.
The fine, vitalizing air of the winter morning, the cheerful bustle preparatory to their departure, the novelty of the breakfast eaten by candle-light, all combined to raise and exhilarate the spirits of the party.
After the merry, hasty meal was over, Mrs. Waugh, in her voluminous cloth cloak, fur tippet, muff, and wadded hood; Jacquelina, enveloped in several fine, soft shawls, and wearing a warm, chinchilla bonnet; and Dr. Grimshaw, in his dreadnaught overcoat and cloak, and long-eared fur cap, all entered the large family carriage, where, with the additional provision of foot-stoves and hot bricks, they had every prospect of a comfortable mode of conveyance.
Old Oliver, in his many-caped drab overcoat, and fox-skin cap and gloves, sat upon the coachman's box with the proud air of a king upon his throne. And why not? It was Oliver's very first visit to the city, and the suit of clothes he wore was brand new!
Thurston's new gig was furnished with two fine buffalo robes—one laid down on the seats and the floor as a carpet, and the other laid over as a coverlet. His forethought had also provided a foot-stove for Marian. And never was a happier man than he when he handed his smiling companion into the gig, settled her comfortably in her seat, placed the foot-stove under her feet, sprang in and seated himself beside her, tucked the buffalo robe carefully in, and took the reins, and waited the signal to move on.
Melchisedek, or as he was commonly called, Cheesy, mounted upon Marian's pony, rode on in advance, to open the gates for the party. Mrs. Waugh's carriage followed. And Thurston's gig brought up the rear. And thus the travelers set forth.
The sun had now risen in cloudless splendor, and was striking long lines of crimson light across the snow, and piercing through the forest aisles. Flocks of saucy little snow-birds alighted fearlessly in their path; but the cunning little gray rabbits just peeped with their round, bright eyes, and then quickly hopped away.
I need not describe their merry journey at length. My readers will readily imagine how delightful was the trip to at least two of the party. And those two were not Dr. Grimshaw and Jacquelina.
Thurston pleaded so hard for a private marriage when they got to
Washington that at last Marian consented.
So one day they drove out to the Navy Yard Hill, and there in the remotest and quietest suburb of the city, in a little Methodist chapel, without witnesses, Thurston and Marian were married.
Thurston and Marian found an opportunity to be alone in the drawing-room for the few moments preceding his departure. In those last moments she could not find it in her heart to withhold one word whose utterance would cheer his soul, and give him hope and joy and confidence in departing. Marian had naturally a fine, healthful, high-toned organization—a happy, hopeful, joyous temperament, an inclination always to look upon the sunny side of life and events. And so, when he drew her gently and tenderly to his bosom, and whispered:
"You have made me the happiest and most grateful man on earth, dear, lovely Marian! dear, lovely wife! but are you satisfied, beloved—oh! are you satisfied? Do I leave you at ease?"
She spoke the very truth when she confessed to him—her head being on his shoulder, and her low tones flowing softly to his listening ear:
"More than satisfied, Thurston—more than satisfied, I am inexpressibly happy now. Yes, though you are going away; for, see! the pain of parting for a few months, is lost in the joy of knowing that we are united, though separated—and in anticipating the time not long hence, when we shall meet again. God bless you, dearest Thurston."
"God forever bless and love you, sweet wife." And so they parted.