"Do you know whether Marian had a letter from him soon after the holidays?"
"Did he write? Why, that was romantic! No—I do not believe it reached her. And if it had, it couldn't have altered anything. Mr. Greaves is very much in earnest, and Marian will have one of the finest houses in the county. Then he talks of going to England and leaving the two older children for their education. Some cousin or uncle or relative died a while ago; and if someone else should die he would come in for a title and a fine estate. Father is quite elated over that. Father should have been born an English aristocrat," and Dolly laughed. "But if I wasn't so in love with Preston I might be captured by the young soldier or some of the beaus with which Washington abounds. Oh, dear! if we could have come to the inauguration! I'm glad to go away, for it's wretchedly dull all about the Pineries. And Charleston is quite gay, Preston writes."
The shopping was done, and the gowns and coats and pelisses left at Mrs. Sweeny's, who was quite celebrated for her taste.
Then Dolly was suddenly summoned home. Her father had a poorly spell, and Mr. Greaves had met with an accident. As he was going to mount his horse one morning to ride over to the Pineries, an owl that had been nesting in a tree near the house made a flight across the lawn, at which the horse shied and knocked down his master, whose head struck the stepping-stone, and he had lain unconscious ever since, but no bones were broken. They had a hope that it would not prove serious, since Mr. Greaves had an excellent constitution and had never been ill a day in his life.
CHAPTER XI.
THE THORNS THAT BESET LOVE.
The spring was late this year, but when it came everything burst into bloom and beauty as if by magic. Even the marshy ends of the streets in Washington were covered with verdure and the curious delicate bloom of the different sedge growths. Congress kept on. There were many perplexing questions, and war loomed in the distance.
The festivities at the Pineries were quite interrupted. When Mr. Greaves recovered consciousness it was found that his right side had been partially paralyzed. His speech was affected, and the doctor spoke doubtfully of his mind.
Consequently all thoughts of Marian's marriage must be given up for the present. But Dolly's went on, and the last week in April the impatient lover presented himself, and the family relatives and friends were gathered to celebrate the occasion. It was considered most proper for Louis Mason to attend Marian, who was to be the first bridesmaid. Jaqueline was next in order, and there were three others. Weddings were quite sumptuous affairs in those days. There was a great supper and dancing; one of the bride-cakes held a ring, put in by the hand of the bride-elect, and great was the interest to see who would get it. This fell to Jaqueline. And when the bride was escorted upstairs by her bevy of maidens she paused on the landing and scattered her half-dozen roses which had been sent from Washington, and cost extravagantly. The first one did not go far, and caught in Jaqueline's shoulder-knot. There was a general laughing exclamation.
"And I haven't even a lover!" cried the girl with dainty mock regret.
There was a grand breakfast the next morning—a real breakfast, not a noon luncheon. Many of the guests had remained all night. Mirth and jollity reigned, good-wishes were given, healths were drunk, and at noon the young couple started on their long stage-coach journey. Tours were hardly considered then, though the bride often journeyed to the house of her husband's nearest relatives. But to take in Baltimore and Philadelphia was enough to set one up for life, and Dolly was very much elated. The return trip would be made by water, so she would be quite a traveled bride.