Night and Morning | Page 6

the
Parsonage--went out but little, and then chiefly on foot excursions
among the sequestered hills in the neighbourhood. He was therefore but
partially known by sight, even in the village; and the visit of some old
college friend to the minister, though indeed it had never chanced
before, was not, in itself, so remarkable an event as to excite any
particular observation. The bans had been duly, and half audibly,
hurried over, after the service was concluded, and while the scanty
congregation were dispersing down the little aisle of the church,--when
one morning a chaise and pair arrived at the Parsonage. A servant out
of livery leaped from the box. The stranger opened the door of the
chaise, and, uttering a joyous exclamation, gave his arm to a lady, who,
trembling and agitated, could scarcely, even with that stalwart support,
descend the steps. "Ah!" she said, in a voice choked with tears, when
they found themselves alone in the little parlour,--"ah! if you knew how
I have suffered!"
How is it that certain words, and those the homeliest, which the hand
writes and the eye reads as trite and commonplace expressions--when
spoken convey so much,--so many meanings complicated and refined?
"Ah! if you knew how I have suffered!"
When the lover heard these words, his gay countenance fell; he drew

back --his conscience smote him: in that complaint was the whole
history of a clandestine love, not for both the parties, but for the
woman--the painful secrecy--the remorseful deceit--the shame--the
fear--the sacrifice. She who uttered those words was scarcely sixteen. It
is an early age to leave Childhood behind for ever!
"My own love! you have suffered, indeed; but it is over now.
"Over! And what will they say of me--what will they think of me at
home? Over! Ah!"
"It is but for a short time; in the course of nature my uncle cannot live
long: all then will be explained. Our marriage once made public, all
connected with you will be proud to own you. You will have wealth,
station--a name among the first in the gentry of England. But, above all,
you will have the happiness to think that your forbearance for a time
has saved me, and, it may be, our children, sweet one!--from poverty
and--"
"It is enough," interrupted the girl; and the expression of her
countenance became serene and elevated. "It is for you--for your sake. I
know what you hazard: how much I must owe you! Forgive me, this is
the last murmur you shall ever hear from these lips."
An hour after these words were spoken, the marriage ceremony was
concluded.
"Caleb," said the bridegroom, drawing the clergyman aside as they
were about to re-enter the house, "you will keep your promise, I know;
and you think I may depend implicitly upon the good faith of the
witness you have selected?"
"Upon his good faith?--no," said Caleb, smiling, "but upon his deafness,
his ignorance, and his age. My poor old clerk! He will have forgotten
all about it before this day three months. Now I have seen your lady, I
no longer wonder that you incur so great a risk. I never beheld so lovely
a countenance. You will be happy!" And the village priest sighed, and
thought of the coming winter and his own lonely hearth.
"My dear friend, you have only seen her beauty--it is her least charm.
Heaven knows how often I have made love; and this is the only woman
I have ever really loved. Caleb, there is an excellent living that adjoins
my uncle's house. The rector is old; when the house is mine, you will
not be long without the living. We shall be neighbours, Caleb, and then
you shall try and find a bride for yourself. Smith,"--and the bridegroom

turned to the servant who had accompanied his wife, and served as a
second witness to the marriage,--tell the post-boy to put to the horses
immediately."
"Yes, Sir. May I speak a word with you?"
"Well, what?"
"Your uncle, sir, sent for me to come to him, the day before we left
town."
"Aha!--indeed!"
"And I could just pick up among his servants that he had some
suspicion-- at least, that he had been making inquiries--and seemed
very cross, sir."
"You went to him?"
"No, Sir, I was afraid. He has such a way with him;--whenever his eye
is fixed on mine, I always feel as if it was impossible to tell a lie; and--
and--in short, I thought it was best not to go."
"You did right. Confound this fellow!" muttered the bridegroom,
turning away; "he is honest, and loves me: yet, if my uncle sees him, he
is clumsy enough to betray all. Well, I always meant to get him out of
the way--the sooner the