“Jane’s fooled us all,” owned Philip Welchammer heartily. To keep intended nuptials a family secret until a day or a few hours before the appointed time was as much a custom of the country as was prying into and spying out such affairs. Surprising her friends by her wedding was, therefore, adding to Jane’s social successes; but only Dr. Miller could perceive her true reason for assembling her suitors at the last moment. While discarding them all, her hospitable nature clung to their friendship; she wished to tell them in a group the change she contemplated, so that no one could accuse her of superior kindness to another. Her very cruelties were intended mercies.
“That’s the way the pretty girls go,” sighed Cousin Tom Randall, seizing hold of Jane’s younger brother: “the preachers get ’em. Come on, Eck; I have to be helped home.”
“I don’t see when he courted her,” breathed Dick Hanks, closing his lips after many efforts.
“Preachers is chain-lightnin’,” laughed Jimmy Thompson. “He’s been around often enough, and always stoppin’ there.”
“To-morrow after preachin’,” said John impressively, as he came forward after hastily covering the jars. “We’re goin’ to have a turkey-dinner, and we want you all to be sure to come. And next time Brother Gurley and Jane makes the circuit, we’ll have the infair at our house, too.”
“That’s just like Davises,” exclaimed one of the dispersing group in the midst of their eager promises; “they wouldn’t be satisfied unless they give the weddin’ and the infair both, and invited all quarterly meetin’ to set down to the table. I thought there was doin’s over at their house; but then they’re always bakin’ and fussin’.”
They could all picture a turkey-roast at Davis’s: the crisp, brown turkeys rising from their own dripping, squares of pone as yellow as buttercups, and biscuits calculated to melt whitely with honey from glass dishes of sweet-smelling combs. There would be every kind of vegetable grown in the Swamp, and game from the banks of the Feeder and Reservoir, pies and cakes and coffee, and at least eight kinds of preserves. Jane Davis and the preacher would stand up in front of the fireplace, and after the ceremony there would be a constant rattle of jokes from the presiding elder and his assistants. And over the whole house would hang that happy atmosphere which makes one think of corn ripening on a sunny hillside in still September weather. A dozen times the long tables would be replenished and supplied with plates, all the usual features of a turkey-roast at Davis’s being exaggerated by the importance of the occasion; and Aunt Davis would now and then forget to urge a guest, while she hurriedly wiped her eyes and replied to some expression of neighborly sympathy, that they had to lose Jane sometime, and it was a good thing for a girl to get a religious man. Then about dusk the preachers and their congregation would start again to chapel, and Jane, in Millersport clothes, would shine on the front seats as a bride, certain of an ovation when the after-meeting handshaking came. It would be a spite if she sat where tallow candles could drip on her from one of the wooden chandeliers, but she would enjoy hearing her bridegroom exhort, and he would feel like exhorting with all his might.
“Well, Doc,” said John Davis, turning from the deserted camp and sinking fire to place himself by the bridle of the young man from Lancaster.
“No,” answered Dr. Miller, “I’m obliged to you, John; but I’ll ride back to Millersport to-night.”
“You don’t feel put out?” urged John, conscious of a pang because all the good fellows who courted Jane could not become his brothers-in-law.