After a few weeks of sorrow, the Squire himself really began to entertain notions of matrimony. It is true he had passed the age of sixty, and it required a great effort to get up a sufficient amount of romance to carry out such an enterprise. Symptoms began, however, to wax strong. The first alarming indication was his attendance at church. The Squire had always been a kind of heathen in this respect, and had for many years set a poor example; but people, who want to marry, will go to church. Whether this is done to get up a reputation, or simply to take a survey of the unappropriated female stock yet remaining on hand, I cannot say.
The Squire was "fixed up" amazingly, the first time I saw him at church. His hair had been cut, and thoroughly greased. His shirt-collar covered his ears; and his boots shone like a mirror. Aunt Sonora said he looked "enymost as good as new." Aunt Graves was in the choir that day, and she sang as she never sang before. She blowed all the heavy strains of music—strains that lifted her on her toes—directly into Squire Longbow's face. Whether Aunt Graves had any design in this, is more than I can say; but I noticed some twinges about the Squire's lips, and a sleepy wink of the eye, that looked a little like magnetism. It was ridiculous, too, that such an old castle should be stormed by music.
But the Squire exhibited other symptoms of matrimony. He grew more pompous in his decisions, disposed of cases more summarily, and quoted law Latin more frequently. It was about this time that he talked about the "nux vomica," instead of the "vox Populi." He used to "squash" proceeding's before the case was half presented; and, in the language of Turtle, "he tore around at a great rate." Turtle said, "the old Squire was getting to be an old fool, and he was goin' to have him married, or dismissed from office—there warn't no livin' with him."
There were a great many anxious mothers about Puddleford who were very desirous of forming an alliance with the Longbow family. Even Mrs. Swipes, as much as she openly oposed the Squire's marriage in general, secretly hoped a spark might be struck up between him and her daughter, Mary Jane Arabella Swipes; and Mrs. Swipes was in the habit of sending her daughter over to the Squire's house, to inquire of him "to know if she couldn't do sunthin' for him in his melancholy condition;" and Sister Abigail went down several times to "put things to rights," and was as kind and obliging, and attentive to all the Squire's wants, as ever Mrs. Longbow was in her palmiest days. On these occasions, Sister Abigail used frequently to remind the Squire of "his great bereavement, and what an angel of a wife he had lost; and that things didn't look as they used to do, when she was around, and she didn't wonder he took on so, when the poor thing died."
But, reader, Ike Turtle had ordered things otherwise. He was determined to strike up a match between the Squire and Aunt Graves. So Ike made a special visit to Aunt Graves one evening, for the purpose of "surveying and sounding along the coast, to see how the waters laid, and how the old soul would take it," to use his language.
I have already given an outline of Aunt Graves; but I will now say further, that she never had an offer of matrimony in her whole life. She was what is termed a "touchy" old maid. She professed to hate men, and affected great distress of mind when thrown into their society. Aunt Graves was just ironing down the seams of a coat that she had finished, when Ike called.
Ike opened the conversation by reminding Aunt Graves that "she was livin' along kinder lonely like."
"Lonely 'nough, I s'pose," she replied, snappishly.
"Don't you never have the blues, and get sorter obstrep'rous?"
Aunt Graves "didn't know as she did."