“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.