A calm and cloudless evening followed the exciting morning which had been experienced in L. The fairest moon of May shone above the ruined meeting-house, which lay in blackened rubbish upon the ground. Her soft light lit up the white dwellings and shrubbery of the village with a holy beauty, until they stood out in bold relief against the surrounding hills, which, in like manner, stood out in similar relief against a sky sparkling with myriads of stars. The herbage sent up its sweetest fragrance, and the air was balmy and delicious. In short, the earth and sky seemed wedded in harmony, and formed a fitting emblem of the marriage-tie about to be celebrated.
The laws regulating wedlock in the colonies were suited to the infant state of society, and threw but few obstacles in the way of the connection. Agreeably with this banishment of all unnecessary form, it was not usual to celebrate their nuptials in places of public worship.
This was peculiarly fortunate in the case of Lucy Ellet, whose marriage having been fixed for this evening, would have had to be deferred, had it been the expectation to celebrate it in the village meeting-house. The arrangements, however, had been made for the performance of the ceremony in the house of her uncle, and the unpleasant affair of the morning was not permitted to retard a matter of such vitality. Lucy’s nerves, too, being of that firm kind which no shock could shatter or disturb beyond the passing moment, there was no necessity for deferring the period.
The hospitalities of her uncle’s house were thrown open to the villagers—not, it is true, by great displays, such as grace nuptial feasts at the present day, but by means of that unpretending welcome and abundance of cheer, which appeals at once to the heart and appetite of the guest. The best parlor was graced with vases of the freshest spring flowers, and tasteful green branches interwoven with white roses—the whole answering to the idea of a fitting place for a marriage scene.
The gate leading to Governor H—’s house was besieged by vehicles of almost every shape and description. The company had assembled about eight o’clock, and were awaiting the entrance of the bridal train, when their attention was diverted by the appearance of Jessy Ellet, the young sister of the bride, holding by the hand of a lady, who, from the fact that she was a stranger, as well as from something striking in her aspect, elicited an unusual degree of notice. Care, more than time, had made inroads upon a face still exquisitely lovely; and the extreme simplicity of her attire served to adorn the melancholy and touching beauty of her countenance. There was something elevated in the sadness of her expression, as though her hopes lay scarce any longer upon earth, but were removed into a scene where disappointment and sorrow could never come. But withal there was occasionally a lustre in her eye, and a beaming smile upon her lip, that proved her capable of the deepest and strongest earthly attachments.
This was evinced in her manner toward the child, upon whom she frequently bestowed these momentary marks of affection. Retiring to a distant part of the room, it was evident that she sought to escape observation. Curiosity, however, had been excited, and every eye remained fixed upon her. As she seated herself, and the little Jessy clung to her, and looked up into her face, to make some childish sally, a strange resemblance became perceptible between the two. Upon the brow of each there was the same mild and placid expression; the same azure eyes, and the identical peculiar smile, changing the expression of the whole countenance.
The bustle attending the arrival of the guests had subsided, and the minister, with his features settled into a suitable degree of solemnity, stood waiting with becoming dignity the entrance of those upon whom he was lo pronounce the nuptial benediction. The door opened, and a group moved slowly forward. Lucy was in front, leaning on the arm which Henry Elmore had given her as much for her support as from motives of courtesy. She appeared attired in a manner suitable to the simplicity as well as the importance of the ceremony. A dress of simple white concealed by its folds the graceful proportions of her slender form. Under it was a vest cut in the fashion of that period, in such a manner as to give the exact outline of her shape. A few orange blossoms were carelessly entwined in the raven braids of her hair, showing more spotlessly by the contrast.
As they drew near to the expecting clergyman, Lucy’s step, which had been slightly unsteady, grew firmer. Although she exhibited the least composure of the two, yet she showed the most intentness on the solemnity before them, and raising her eyes toward the clergyman, she kept them fixed on him throughout the ceremony with sweet and earnest attention.
In a moment, the low, solemn tones of the minister were heard. As he delivered the usual opening homily, he paused frequently and long, giving to each injunction a distinct and marked emphasis. After performing the ceremony, when he came to the closing words, “what God hath joined together, let not man put asunder,” he lifted his voice as though he were addressing the guests: And when the blessing was pronounced, for a few moments not a sound was heard in the room. The minister advanced first, and congratulated the pair, followed by the guests, who also approached and made their compliments.
The enjoyments of the Puritans were of a very quiet nature. They neither jested, heard music, nor drank healths, and yet they seemed not the less to enjoy themselves. Political leanings had not then contributed their bitterness to private life: but religion being the chief topic of their thoughts, became also the principal subject of their conversation.