CHAPTER XIII.
THE PARTY.
WELL, let us proceed to tell how the eventful evening drew on,—howMary, by Miss Prissy’s care, stood at last in a long-waisted gownflowered with rosebuds and violets, opening in front to display a whitesatin skirt trimmed with lace and flowers,—how her little feet wereput into high-heeled shoes, and a little jaunty cap with a wreath ofmoss rosebuds was fastened over her shining hair,—and how Miss Prissy,delighted, turned her round and round, and then declared that she mustgo and get the Doctor to look at her. She knew he must be a man oftaste, he talked so beautifully about the Millennium; and so, burstinginto his study, she actually chattered him back into the visible world,and, leading the blushing Mary to the door, asked him, point blank, ifhe ever saw anything prettier.
The Doctor, being now wide awake, gravely gave his mind to the subject,and, after some consideration, said, gravely, ‘No,—he didn’t think heever did.’ For the Doctor was not a man of compliment, and had a habitof always thinking, before he spoke, whether what he was going to saywas exactly true; and having lived some time in the family of PresidentEdwards, renowned for beautiful daughters, he naturally thought themover.
The Doctor looked innocent and helpless, while Miss Prissy, havinggot him now quite into her power, went on volubly to expatiate on thedifficulties overcome in adapting the ancient wedding-dress to itspresent modern fit. He told her that it was very nice,—said, ‘Yes,ma’am,’ at proper places,—and, being a very obliging man, looked atwhatever he was directed to, with round, blank eyes; but ended all witha long gaze on the laughing, blushing face, that, half in shame andhalf in perplexed mirth, appeared and disappeared as Miss Prissy in herwarmth turned her round and showed her.
‘Now, don’t she look beautiful?’ Miss Prissy reiterated for thetwentieth time, as Mary left the room.
The Doctor, looking after her musingly, said to himself,—‘“The king’sdaughter is all glorious within; her clothing is of wrought gold; sheshall be brought into the king in raiment of needlework.”’
‘Now, did I ever?’ said Miss Prissy, rushing out. ‘How that good mandoes turn everything! I believe you couldn’t get anything, that hewouldn’t find a text right out of the Bible about it. I mean to get thelinen for that shirt this very week, with the Miss Wilcox’s money; theyalways pay well, those Wilcoxes,—and I’ve worked for them, off and on,sixteen days and a quarter. To be sure, Miss Scudder, there’s no realneed of my doing it, for I must say you keep him looking like a pink;but only I feel as if I must do something for such a good man.’
The good Doctor was brushed up for the evening with zealous care andenergy; and if he did _not_ look like a pink, it was certainly no faultof his hostess.
Well, we cannot reproduce in detail the faded glories of thatentertainment, nor relate how the Wilcox Manor and gardens wereilluminated,—how the bride wore a veil of real point-lace,—howcarriages rolled and grated on the gravel walks, and negro servants, inwhite kid gloves, handed out ladies in velvet and satin.
To Mary’s inexperienced eye it seemed like an enchanted dream,—arealization of all she had dreamed of grand and high society. Shehad her little triumph of an evening; for everybody asked who thatbeautiful girl was, and more than one gallant of the old Newport firstfamilies felt himself adorned and distinguished to walk with her on hisarm. Busy, officious dowagers repeated to Mrs. Scudder the applaudingwhispers that followed her wherever she went.
‘Really, Mrs. Scudder,’ said gallant old General Wilcox, ‘where haveyou kept such a beauty all this time? It’s a sin and a shame to hidesuch a light under a bushel.’
And Mrs. Scudder, though, of course, like you and me, sensible reader,properly apprised of the perishable nature of such fleeting honours,was, like us, too, but a mortal, and smiled condescendingly on thefollies of the scene.
The house was divided by a wide hall opening by doors, the front oneupon the street, the back into a large garden, the broad central walkof which, edged on each side with high clipped hedges of box, nowresplendent with coloured lamps, seemed to continue the prospect in abrilliant vista.
The old-fashioned garden was lighted in every part, and the companydispersed themselves about it in picturesque groups.
We have the image in our mind of Mary as she stood with her little hatand wreath of rosebuds, her fluttering ribbons and rich brocade, as itwere a picture framed in the doorway, with her back to the illuminatedgarden, and her calm, innocent face regarding with a pleased wonder theunaccustomed gaieties within.
Her dress, which, under Miss Prissy’s forming hand, had been made toassume that appearance of style and fashion which more particularlycharacterised the mode of those times, formed a singular, but notunpleasing, contrast to the sort of dewy freshness of air and mienwhich was characteristic of her style of beauty. It seemed so torepresent a being who was in the world, yet not of it,—who, thoughliving habitually in a higher region of thought and feeling, wasartlessly curious, and innocently pleased with a fresh experience in analtogether untried sphere. The feeling of being in a circle to whichshe did not belong, where her presence was in a manner an accident, andwhere she felt none of the responsibilities which come from being acomponent part of a society, gave to her a quiet, disengaged air, whichproduced all the effect of the perfect ease of high breeding.
While she stands there, there comes out of the door of the bridalreception-room a gentleman with a stylishly-dressed lady on eitherarm, with whom he seems wholly absorbed. He is of middle height,peculiarly graceful in form and moulding, with that indescribableair of high breeding which marks the polished man of the world. Hisbeautifully-formed head, delicate profile, fascinating sweetness ofsmile, and, above all, an eye which seemed to have an almost mesmericpower of attraction, were traits which distinguished one of the mostcelebrated men of the time, and one whose peculiar history yet livesnot only in our national records, but in the private annals of many anAmerican family.
‘Good Heavens!’ he said, suddenly pausing in conversation, as his eyeaccidentally fell upon Mary. ‘Who is that lovely creature?’
‘Oh, that,’ said Mrs. Wilcox,—‘why, that is Mary Scudder. Her fatherwas a family connection of the General’s. The family are in rathermodest circumstances, but highly respectable.’
After a few moments more of ordinary chit-chat, in which from time totime he darted upon her glances of rapid and piercing observation, thegentleman might have been observed to disembarrass himself of one ofthe ladies on his arm, by passing her with a compliment and a bow toanother gallant, and after a few moments more, he spoke something toMrs. Wilcox, in a low voice, and with that gentle air of deferentialsweetness which always made everybody well satisfied to do his will.The consequence was, that in a few moments Mary was startled from hercalm speculations by the voice of Mrs. Wilcox, saying at her elbow, ina formal tone:—
‘Miss Scudder, I have the honour to present to your acquaintanceColonel Burr, of the United States Senate.’