THE PARTY.
WELL, let us proceed to tell how the eventful evening drew on,—how
Mary, by Miss Prissy’s care, stood at last in a long-waisted gown
flowered with rosebuds and violets, opening in front to display a white
satin skirt trimmed with lace and flowers,—how her little feet were
put into high-heeled shoes, and a little jaunty cap with a wreath of
moss rosebuds was fastened over her shining hair,—and how Miss Prissy,
delighted, turned her round and round, and then declared that she must
go and get the Doctor to look at her. She knew he must be a man of
taste, he talked so beautifully about the Millennium; and so, bursting
into his study, she actually chattered him back into the visible world,
and, leading the blushing Mary to the door, asked him, point blank, if
he 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 he
ever did.’ For the Doctor was not a man of compliment, and had a habit
of always thinking, before he spoke, whether what he was going to say
was exactly true; and having lived some time in the family of President
Edwards, renowned for beautiful daughters, he naturally thought them
over.
The Doctor looked innocent and helpless, while Miss Prissy, having
got him now quite into her power, went on volubly to expatiate on the
difficulties overcome in adapting the ancient wedding-dress to its
present modern fit. He told her that it was very nice,—said, ‘Yes,
ma’am,’ at proper places,—and, being a very obliging man, looked at
whatever he was directed to, with round, blank eyes; but ended all with
a long gaze on the laughing, blushing face, that, half in shame and
half in perplexed mirth, appeared and disappeared as Miss Prissy in her
warmth turned her round and showed her.
‘Now, don’t she look beautiful?’ Miss Prissy reiterated for the
twentieth time, as Mary left the room.
The Doctor, looking after her musingly, said to himself,—‘“The king’s
daughter is all glorious within; her clothing is of wrought gold; she
shall be brought into the king in raiment of needlework.”’
‘Now, did I ever?’ said Miss Prissy, rushing out. ‘How that good man
does turn everything! I believe you couldn’t get anything, that he
wouldn’t find a text right out of the Bible about it. I mean to get the
linen for that shirt this very week, with the Miss Wilcox’s money; they
always 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 real
need 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 and
energy; and if he did _not_ look like a pink, it was certainly no fault
of his hostess.
Well, we cannot reproduce in detail the faded glories of that
entertainment, nor relate how the Wilcox Manor and gardens were
illuminated,—how the bride wore a veil of real point-lace,—how
carriages rolled and grated on the gravel walks, and negro servants, in
white kid gloves, handed out ladies in velvet and satin.
To Mary’s inexperienced eye it seemed like an enchanted dream,—a
realization of all she had dreamed of grand and high society. She
had her little triumph of an evening; for everybody asked who that
beautiful girl was, and more than one gallant of the old Newport first
families felt himself adorned and distinguished to walk with her on his
arm. Busy, officious dowagers repeated to Mrs. Scudder the applauding
whispers that followed her wherever she went.
‘Really, Mrs. Scudder,’ said gallant old General Wilcox, ‘where have
you kept such a beauty all this time? It’s a sin and a shame to hide
such 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 the
follies of the scene.
The house was divided by a wide hall opening by doors, the front one
upon the street, the back into a large garden, the broad central walk
of which, edged on each side with high clipped hedges of box, now
resplendent with coloured lamps, seemed to continue the prospect in a
brilliant vista.
The old-fashioned garden was lighted in every part, and the company
dispersed themselves about it in picturesque groups.
We have the image in our mind of Mary as she stood with her little hat
and wreath of rosebuds, her fluttering ribbons and rich brocade, as it
were a picture framed in the doorway, with her back to the illuminated
garden, and her calm, innocent face regarding with a pleased wonder the
unaccustomed gaieties within.
Her dress, which, under Miss Prissy’s forming hand, had been made to
assume that appearance of style and fashion which more particularly
characterised the mode of those times, formed a singular, but not
unpleasing, contrast to the sort of dewy freshness of air and mien
which was characteristic of her style of beauty. It seemed so to
represent a being who was in the world, yet not of it,—who, though
living habitually in a higher region of thought and feeling, was
artlessly curious, and innocently pleased with a fresh experience in an
altogether untried sphere. The feeling of being in a circle to which
she did not belong, where her presence was in a manner an accident, and
where she felt none of the responsibilities which come from being a
component part of a society, gave to her a quiet, disengaged air, which
produced all the effect of the perfect ease of high breeding.
While she stands there, there comes out of the door of the bridal
reception-room a gentleman with a stylishly-dressed lady on either
arm, with whom he seems wholly absorbed. He is of middle height,
peculiarly graceful in form and moulding, with that indescribable
air of high breeding which marks the polished man of the world. His
beautifully-formed head, delicate profile, fascinating sweetness of
smile, and, above all, an eye which seemed to have an almost mesmeric
power of attraction, were traits which distinguished one of the most
celebrated men of the time, and one whose peculiar history yet lives
not only in our national records, but in the private annals of many an
American family.
‘Good Heavens!’ he said, suddenly pausing in conversation, as his eye
accidentally fell upon Mary. ‘Who is that lovely creature?’
‘Oh, that,’ said Mrs. Wilcox,—‘why, that is Mary Scudder. Her father
was a family connection of the General’s. The family are in rather
modest circumstances, but highly respectable.’
After a few moments more of ordinary chit-chat, in which from time to
time he darted upon her glances of rapid and piercing observation, the
gentleman might have been observed to disembarrass himself of one of
the ladies on his arm, by passing her with a compliment and a bow to
another gallant, and after a few moments more, he spoke something to
Mrs. Wilcox, in a low voice, and with that gentle air of deferential
sweetness which always made everybody well satisfied to do his will.
The consequence was, that in a few moments Mary was startled from her
calm speculations by the voice of Mrs. Wilcox, saying at her elbow, in
a formal tone:—
‘Miss Scudder, I have the honour to present to your acquaintance
Colonel Burr, of the United States Senate.’