Night and Morning | Page 5

rarer and more rare, had
altogether ceased, Mr. Caleb Price was summoned from his parlour in
which he had been employed in the fabrication of a net for his cabbages,
by a little white-headed boy, who came to say there was a gentleman at
the inn who wished immediately to see him--a strange gentleman, who
had never been there before.
Mr. Price threw down his net, seized his hat, and, in less than five
minutes, he was in the best room of the little inn.
The person there awaiting him was a man who, though plainly clad in a
velveteen shooting-jacket, had an air and mien greatly above those
common to the pedestrian visitors of A----. He was tall, and of one of
those athletic forms in which vigour in youth is too often followed by
corpulence in age. At this period, however, in the full prime of
manhood--the ample chest and sinewy limbs, seen to full advantage in
their simple and manly dress--could not fail to excite that popular
admiration which is always given to strength in the one sex as to
delicacy in the other. The stranger was walking impatiently to and fro
the small apartment when Mr. Price entered; and then, turning to the
clergyman a countenance handsome and striking, but yet more

prepossessing from its expression of frankness than from the regularity
of its features,--he stopped short, held out his hand, and said, with a gay
laugh, as he glanced over the parson's threadbare and slovenly costume,
"My poor Caleb!--what a metamorphosis!--I should not have known
you again!"
"What! you! Is it possible, my dear fellow?--how glad I am to see you!
What on earth can bring you to such a place? No! not a soul would
believe me if I said I had seen you in this miserable hole."
"That is precisely the reason why I am here. Sit down, Caleb, and we'll
talk over matters as soon as our landlord has brought up the materials
for--"
"The milk-punch," interrupted Mr. Price, rubbing his hands.
"Ah, that will bring us back to old times, indeed!"
In a few minutes the punch was prepared, and after two or three
preparatory glasses, the stranger thus commenced: "My dear Caleb, I
am in want of your assistance, and above all of your secrecy."
"I promise you both beforehand. It will make me happy the rest of my
life to think I have served my patron--my benefactor--the only friend I
possess."
"Tush, man! don't talk of that: we shall do better for you one of these
days. But now to the point: I have come here to be married--married,
old boy! married!"
And the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and chuckled with the
glee of a schoolboy.
"Humph!" said the parson, gravely. "It is a serious thing to do, and a
very odd place to come to."
"I admit both propositions: this punch is superb. To proceed. You know
that my uncle's immense fortune is at his own disposal; if I disobliged
him, he would be capable of leaving all to my brother; I should
disoblige him irrevocably if he knew that I had married a tradesman's
daughter; I am going to marry a tradesman's daughter--a girl in a
million! the ceremony must be as secret as possible. And in this church,
with you for the priest, I do not see a chance of discovery."
"Do you marry by license?"
"No, my intended is not of age; and we keep the secret even from her
father. In this village you will mumble over the bans without one of
your congregation ever taking heed of the name. I shall stay here a

month for the purpose. She is in London, on a visit to a relation in the
city. The bans on her side will be published with equal privacy in a
little church near the Tower, where my name will be no less unknown
than hers. Oh, I've contrived it famously!"
"But, my dear fellow, consider what you risk."
"I have considered all, and I find every chance in my favour. The bride
will arrive here on the day of our wedding: my servant will be one
witness; some stupid old Welshman, as antediluvian as possible--I
leave it to you to select him--shall be the other. My servant I shall
dispose of, and the rest I can depend on."
"But--"
"I detest buts; if I had to make a language, I would not admit such a
word in it. And now, before I run on about Catherine, a subject quite
inexhaustible, tell me, my dear friend, something about yourself."
. . . . . . .
Somewhat more than a month had elapsed since the arrival of the
stranger at the village inn. He had changed his quarters for