nor did he cease, even when the merriment of his auditors became as uproarious as his own harmony.
In the midst of the chorus and the laughter, young Falconer looked up, and beheld his father, who had suddenly checked his horse at the entrance of the little oak-yard, and was looking towards him. He was struck with the unusual agitation of his parent's countenance, and ran towards him; but before he could speak, the Colonel demanded quickly, as if with an effort to change the current of his own thoughts,
"What do you here, Henry! Is this a place, is this a sport for a bridegroom?"
"'Pon my soul, pa," said the hopeful son, "I find it more agreeable than up among the tabbies. This fellow, this Monsieur Tiqueraque, as he calls himself, is decidedly the most agreeable person I have seen to-day,—a gentleman fiddler, who swears by all the gods of a Frenchman, he has trudged twenty miles on foot, to have the honour of dancing at my funeral—that is, my wedding; but the lord knows, pa, you look as solemn as if to-day was to be the end of me. Pray, sir, what is the matter? I hope you are not offended? Egad, sir, I am acting under orders,—under Harry's, who has taken as much command of me as if she were my wife, instead of my sister. She ordered me away, to be out of Catherine's sight,—the lord knows why, but women are all mad, and I think Catherine is growing as whimsical and absurd as the rest."
"Get you back to her, notwithstanding," said the father; "a maiden is privileged to be capricious on her wedding-day. Get you back; your absence is improper. And hark you, Henry, my son—delay not the ceremony on my account: the clergyman must be now on the way, and will soon arrive. Wait not a moment for me. A sudden affair, not to be deferred even to the nuptial rite, calls me to Hillborough:—Say thus much to Captain Loring and the rest; say that I will be back within a few hours; and add, that I charge them not to delay the ceremony a moment for me. God bless you, my son—I must away."
So saying, he put spurs to his horse, and followed by Reuben, was soon out of sight.
"Well done, dad!" cried the young soldier, staring after him; "I wonder what's in the wind now? He has seen one of his spectres, I warrant me.—Adzooks, as the Captain says, if one were to believe that Reuben and black Joe, they are thicker in our house, about two in the morning, than is comfortable,—especially in dad's chamber. Won't stay to the wedding? why that's comical, egad! But that's his way. Well, now for that mad fool, Tiqueraque: he shall have his will, were it only on account of his striped breeches; he shall go among the fiddlers, though, gad's my life, he saws like a knife-grinder. I never saw two such legs before: egad, I beg my pardon, I did! 'List, list, oh list!' Such legs in Hamlet! Well God bless us, and by the eternal Jupiter, as Caliver says, I had no idea it was so stupid a thing to be married. Eh bien, monsieur," he added, turning to M. Tiqueraque, "I have no doubt you are a gentleman born and bred; so, gad's my life, you shall fiddle at the wedding, and get drunk into the bargain; but, by the eternal Jupiter, you must not be in a hurry!"
"Si fait, monsieur," cried the wanderer, drawing a note of indignation from his instrument; "Mort de ma vie, dronk! I s'all do no such sing. But I s'all see de leddees?" he added, in a transport that quite dispelled his temporary wrath. "Ah, Missare Ou-at-you-call-him, I s'all be very happy now! I love de leddees, particulièrement de leddees of figure, and not the contree pauvrettes, wis big feet and te'es like de old horse.—Ah ça, I s'all be very happy, and I s'all sharge only two dollare."
"Bring him along Tom, fiddle and all," cried the bridegroom,—"and, you Ned Cascable-nose, if you love me, gad, steal somebody's horse, ride down the road, and see what the deuce has become of the parson. We can get married very well without dad; but, adzooks, as the Captain says, a parson is quite essential. I swear, gad's my life, 'tis a very ludicrous thing, one's wedding-day."
And thus, as the party bent their steps towards the mansion, rattled the bridegroom, a youth of the lightest heart and emptiest head in all Pennsylvania, of a mind entirely too contracted for eccentricity, yet full of those foibles of character which commonly pass for such,—incapable of any stretch of sentiment or elevated emotion, and indeed rude, boisterous, and unreasonable of manners,—yet with a certain native good-humour and spirit prevailing through all his acts and conversation, that recommended him to the favour of such as were not choice in their friendships, and preserved him the affection of those whom the ties of relationship compelled to love. Such was the man whom Colonel Falconer, or rather his daughter, (for she was the guiding and ruling spirit throughout the whole attempt to unite such adverse elements together,) had chosen as the husband of Catherine Loring; and the inhumanity of the choice was rendered excusable only by the natural desire she had to contribute to his happiness, and the undue importance she attached to those good qualities he really possessed. Still the attempt was cruel, for it set at naught the disinclination of one whom feebleness of character, a sense of destitution, operating, however, only through the person of a bereaved parent, a knowledge of his desires, and a consciousness perhaps that it was too late for escape, had put into her power. It is not to be supposed that Miss Falconer saw, that in effecting her brother's happiness she was destroying that of her friend; or that seeing it, she would have persisted in her object. On the contrary she was sincerely attached to Catherine, and fully believed she was consulting her welfare, though at the price of some temporary pain. It was her peculiar disposition to pursue every object with an avidity and resolution that became the stronger for every interposing obstacle; and she willingly blinded her eyes to such difficulties as she was not forced to see. She turned her looks, therefore, from her friend's distresses, and soon ceased to believe that they existed. But the match was one not made in heaven, nor destined to be accomplished; and fate, in frustrating the whole ill-advised scheme, was preparing a heavy retribution for all who had laboured to promote it.