A ROMANCE OF COLONIAL DAYS.
BY FRANCES C. SPARHAWK, Author of "A Lazy Man’s Work."
CHAPTER VI.
THE STAB IN THE BACK.
A brighter morning for a wedding never dawned. The house was alive with merry voices and the echo of footsteps hurrying to and fro. The most fashionable society of the city was to be present at the ceremony which was to take place at noon. Then would come the festivities, the feast, the dancing, and after that the drive of the newly-married pair to the beautiful house three miles away, that Stephen Archdale had built and furnished for his bride, and that had never yet been a home.
Before the appointed hour the guests began to arrive and to fill the great drawing-room. There each one on entering walked toward the huge fire-place, in which on an immense bed of coals glowing with a brilliancy that outshone the rich red furniture and hangings of the room lay great logs, which blazed in their fervor of hospitable intent and radiated a small circle of comfort from the heat that did not escape up the chimney. The rich attire of the guests could bear the bright sunlight that streamed in through the numberless little panes of the windows, and the gay colors that they wore showed off well against the dark wainscotting of the room and its antique tapestries. The ladies were gorgeous in silks and velvets which were well displayed over enormous hoops. On their heads, where the well-powdered hair was built up in a tower nearly a foot in height, were flowers or feathers. Precious stones fastened the folds of rich kerchiefs, sparkled on dainty fingers, or flashed with stray movements of fans that, however discreetly waved, betrayed their trappings once in a while by some coquettish tremulousness. The gentlemen were resplendent also in gold-laced coats and small clothes, gold, or diamond shoe buckles, powdered wigs and queues, and with ruffles of the richest lace about their wrists. These guests, who were among the people that in themselves, or their descendants, were destined to give the world a new nation, strong and free, showed all that regard to the details of fashion said to characterize incipient decay in races. But with them it was only an accessory of position, everything was on a foundation of reality, it all represented a substantial wealth displaying itself without effort. The Sherburnes were there, the Atkinsons, the Pickerings, Governor Wentworth, the first of the Governors after New Hampshire separated from Massachusetts and went into business for itself, and others of the Wentworth family. Conspicuous among the guests was Colonel Pepperrell who had already proved that the heart of a strong man beat under his laced coat. His wife, well-born and fine-looking, was beside him, and his son, fresh from College honors, and sipping eagerly the sparkling draught of life that was to be over for him so soon; his daughter also, last year a bride, and her husband. These were leaders in that brilliant assembly called together to the marriage of Katie and Stephen Archdale.
While waiting for the event of the morning they talked in low tones among themselves of the wedding, or more audibly, of personal, or of political affairs.
"It wants only ten minutes of the hour," said one lady, "perhaps our good parson may not come this morning."
"What do you mean?" asked her companion.