“No, no,” said she, in a voice firm, but full of deep feeling; “let us go on, let us cross, it will do me good.” They went on, George pulled the boat across, and Elizabeth looked around over those expansive meadows. She then proposed to return, and in the same silence they retraced their steps, and went up the orchard to the summer-house in the garden. Elizabeth sat down, and looked pale and faint.
“I will run for some wine,” said George.
“No, no wine, George; bring me Letty’s Eau-de-Cologne.”
George was quickly back. Elizabeth bathed her forehead and inhaled the odour, and then faintly smiling, said,—“I am better, and I shall be better; I am glad I have forced myself to cross that ferry, it has given me a different picture in my mind. I shall gradually get to see that only, and I shall be so much happier.”
And this eventually became the case. The ferry was not a place that Elizabeth ever desired to see; there was indeed scarcely any reason that she should go near it; but in her mind the horrible images of the fatal event, as she had read them, had now been softened and concealed, to a certain degree, by the summer evening tranquillity which she had seen, and in the ordinary life at home, the most painful sensations had disappeared on any mention of Woodburn Ferry. “In a country which we both love so much,” she said to her husband, “I would not have a single thing which can cause me a pang or a regret.”
Not many weeks after the marriage of George Woodburn, one morning there was grave bustle in the streets of Castleborough. The tide was observed to be tending towards the Friends’ Meeting, and on arriving there, a number of handsome carriages were seen drawn up before the usually so quiet door of that simple tabernacle of silent worshippers. On entering the somewhat large, but very simple meeting-house, with its white-washed walls and plain deal benches, a very different congregation to its usually grave-faced and gravely-dressed one, was seen assembled. Every part of it was crowded with people whose gay costume, especially those of the ladies, made the members of the Society, who were scattered amongst them, look but like little dottings in a lively picture. The walls of the meeting-house were panelled with plain unpainted deal about five feet high, and a raised seat ran along them, on which many of the best known Friends had taken their places, intermingled with some of the most distinguished people of the town and neighbourhood. Along the whole front of the meeting-house ran a gallery raised some steps above the body of the place, breasted in front by a balustered railing. In this gallery, which was accessible from both the centre and each end, sat conspicuous in the costliest but plainest of silks, Mrs. Heritage, and by her side her sister-in-law, a most silential and antique-looking personage—Dorothy Qualm, wife of that great professor of Silence, David Qualm, whose solemn face and exactly triangular hat were seen under this gallery on a seat fronting the whole of the assembly. In front of this seat stood a rather large table, with pens and ink and blotting-paper; and a vacancy was left on the seat itself of considerable extent.
All was evidently curiosity and expectation. Never had so gay and crowded a gathering appeared in that house, not even when the most noted Public Friend, that is, ministering Friend, or preacher, from London, Ireland, America, or elsewhere, had had the whole town called together, to hear what he, or she, expected, but was not sure, that the Spirit would give him or her to say. To-day, the brilliant assembly appeared pretty certain of something of interest turning up, and every time that the door behind them opened, there was a general turning round, and often to a disappointment. At length, however, there was certainly an unusual bustle in the lobby; the door was opened with an air of importance by the tall, quaint figure of William Theobold, the drab three-corner-hatted coachman of the eccentric Mr. Barthe, dentist and wit; and in walked up the centre aisle, if it might be so called, no other, arm in arm, than Dr. Frank Leroy and Miss Millicent Heritage. They were followed by their immediate relatives, and advanced and seated themselves in the centre of the seat under the gallery facing the people. There was a general stir and excitement amongst the whole spectator body, and many bright smiles and knowing nods to one another amongst the ladies,—soon, however, subsiding into a deep silence. The bride and bridegroom had to-day conformed, in a great measure, to the costume of the Society. Millicent was dressed in a lovely dress of richest white satin, and a jaunty though Quaker bonnet of the same material. A white veil covered but did not completely obscure her face, in which her peculiarly oriental style of beauty appeared the more piquant from that simple but truly bridal costume. The Doctor had a plain suit of black, with his coat collarless, certainly, but cut, it might have been, by a Court tailor, for appearance at a royal levee. He appeared at once a very handsome, intellectual young man, a gentleman and a Friend.
“What a lucky fellow!—such a wife, and such a fortune!” was the thought of most of the spectators; and there was no doubt that Frank Leroy thought the same. It was clearly enough written on his grave but happy face. Around and about the young couple might be seen Mr. Heritage, Mr. Fairfax, the humorous-looking George Barthe, Sir Henry and Lady Clavering, Thorsby and his Letty, Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn, and George and Elizabeth, and with them the Degges.
After a little pause Mrs. Heritage took off her bonnet, dropped softly on her knees in the gallery, and put up a short but fervent prayer for God’s blessing on the ceremony about to take place. Then another little pause of expectation, and the bridegroom took the bride by the hand; they rose, and in the simple formula of words prescribed by the Society, declared that they took each other as husband and wife, and promised mutual love and fidelity till death did them part. On sitting down, there was soon a bustle of unrolling paper on the table, and the clerk of the meeting laid the certificate of marriage before the contracting parties for their signatures. Then the parents and immediate relatives signed it in attestation; after which there was a crowding and a moving up from all quarters of those who were desirous of appending their names to so peculiar a document. Whilst this was doing the newly-married pair, and their nearest of kin, withdrew, and then was heard a rapid rolling away of carriages.
After a short time spent amongst the pleasant hills and rocky dales of Derbyshire, Dr. Leroy and his wife returned to their handsome house in Castleborough Park. If appearances might be relied on, Millicent Leroy had, after all, found in Frank Leroy, the man of her heart. The little season of illusion which had once enwrapped her had left no traces behind it, but such as time had already very much obliterated, and which the affection and merits of a most highly esteemed and popular husband were likely to render ever less perceptible. A very sunny and velvet path was theirs. Vast wealth, a married home and a parental one existed for them, for, like Woodburn Grange, Fair Manor was the resort of the younger branches in almost daily intercourse. A sphere of great usefulness, as well as of a splendid future, lay before Dr. and Millicent Leroy; and those who believe they will show themselves worthy of such superb advantages, we may venture to prognosticate will not be deceived.