CHAPTER I.
The moon shone serenely clear over hill and dale, her silver rays playing on the dull gray earth with sportive fancy, while not a zephyr seemed upon the wing, and all nature slumbered in the stillness of a warm summer evening, when, from one of the neat white cottages of the village of ——, issued two figures, completely enveloped in cloaks, notwithstanding the thermometer stood at nearly ninety. Not a word was spoken, but with stealthy steps they chased their shadows along the silent streets for a good half mile; although twice or thrice one of the figures paused and heaved convulsively, whether from lack of breath or agitation seemed doubtful. At length they stopped before a cottage, whose proximity to the church bespoke the parsonage; a light twinkled through the casement; the muffled fugitives rapt gently at the door; it was opened, and they entered.
The old moss-grown church clock had just proclaimed, in solemn tones, the hour of nine, on the next morning, when two ladies, whose looks bespoke them far upon the road of time—clad in black silk bonnets and mitts—came slowly down the streets, shaded by the spreading elms. These good gossips appeared deeply engaged in conversation, looking so intently into each other’s face, that sundry fowls, young pigs, and small dogs miraculously escaped a sudden and violent death.
“Can you believe it yet, Mrs. Potts?” cried the lesser of the two ladies; “such a reflection upon our quiet village—good gracious and powers! preserve us from such assurance.” Thus saying, she rolled up the balls of her eyes, and clasped her hands together with pious fervor.
“Not only that, my dear Miss Clapper, but such an example to the daughters of the place!” and Mrs. Potts sighed, as she thought of her six damsels, who still remained in single blessedness, notwithstanding the many little innocent manœuvres to which mammas will sometimes have recourse.
“Yes, indeed, it behoves you, Mrs. Potts, to keep a sharp look-out. Will you visit her—the good-for-naught?”
“W-e-ll, what do you think about it? If we cut her all the village will. What say you?”
“To be sure, to be sure, that’s true; her place in society depends upon us, my dear. She gives such pleasant parties, such excellent soft waffles, and then one meets sometimes such agreeable people from the city there, which gives the girls a chance, you know, (winking knowingly,) that it would be a pity to throw her off.”
“I agree with you, my dear Miss Clapper—and—after all, she’s honestly married, although she stole away, like a thief in the night.”
“Suppose we just stop and ask Katy a few questions. May be they wish to keep it a secret. Here we are by the house—shall we stop?”
“I have no objections, my dear; but you’ll get nothing out of that piece of sour-crout.”
“I’ll pump her; leave me alone for that.”
Accordingly the two loving, neighborly gossips rapt at the door of the white cottage from whence had stolen forth the fugitives the night previous.
The loud knock announced the aristocracy of the village; the door opened, and the sharp bluish features of Katy filled up the aperture. Her small gravy eyes blinked for a moment when she beheld the visitors; the next Katy stood the personification of gravity.
“Well, Katy,” cried Miss Clapper, in her most dulcet tones, “how do you do this fine morn? all well, I hope,” making an effort to open wider the door.
“Why, yes, Miss; a very fine morning, and we are all well, thanks be to goodness,” answered Katy, holding the door still closer, and protruding her nose still farther, so that the sudden slam of the door would have deprived that venerable spinster of that most conspicuous of all features, a red nose. “Sorry I can’t ask you both in—but nobody’s home.”
“Ah! so, then, it’s true, what we heard this morning,” said Mrs. Potts.
“Can’t say, indeed, Marm, as I don’t know what you might have heard.”
“Oh! only that your mistress ran off last night and was married, and went away this morning in the village hack,” almost screamed Miss Clapper.
“And so my mistress is married, and I know some that would like to be in her shoes, if they could but get the chance.”
“Well, well, Katy, no offence is meant,” cried Mrs. Potts; “when will the bride be home?”
“She bade me tell you, Marm, and Miss Clapper, (and she wants you to tell the village) that on Thursday evening the doors will be thrown open and the candles lighted, and you will see her and plenty of wedding cake and good wine.” Thus saying, she gently closed the door.
“So! it’s no secret after all,” cried Mrs. Potts; “Katy made no bones at confession.”
“No! the old she devil! how I hate that creature—she always Miss-es one so—never calls me any thing but Miss!—Miss!—She shan’t read it on my tomb-stone, if I can help it,” muttered Miss Clapper.
Faithfully did these village circulars perform their agreeable task. Before the sun sank to rest, every individual, from the lady of the member of the legislature to the shoe-black in the inn, had heard the news, and had formed dreams of the coming event. The bride and bride-cake—beaux and belles, had been reviewed in the mind’s eye o’er and o’er again.
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