Though it is not yet seven o’clock, the winter night, in this northern
parish, has quite closed in, and it is already very dark. When the sun
set, far in the south, some hours ago, its disc gleamed coppery red
through brown mist veils as of rising smoke, and the shepherd’s wife on
the moor, as she brought in her peats for the night, said she thought
there would be more snow before morning. It has not yet begun to fall,
however, when the minister, wrapped up to the ears in his heavy coat,
and his feet encased in strong, thick-soled boots, pulling on a pair
of rough worsted gloves, and calling his spaniel from her place on the
study hearth, sets out from his comfortable manse.
Presently, as he turns from the beaten highway into the snow-clad woods
of the manor, hearing the bell of the distant town steeple behind
him striking the hour, he gives an encouraging word to his dog, and
quickens his steps a little. As he passes the humble window of the
gate-lodge, he pauses a moment--there was a sound; yes, it is audible
again--a mother crooning softly over her child; and his eye glistens as
his ear catches the lullaby, old bachelor as he is. From the chimney
on the low roof, too, there steals down among the trees the savoury
fragrance of the evening meal. The father, one of the under-gamekeepers
on the estate, evidently has not come home yet, and his young wife is
waiting for him.
The sky hangs soft and very dark overhead, the tree-tops are all but
lost in it, and one can almost fancy he hears the drifting of the
coming snow. But all is silent, not a branch in the forest stirs, and
between the black tree-trunks the white sheet can be seen stretching
stainless and undisturbed on either hand into the mysterious depths of
the woods. The trees themselves, unshaken all these weeks by wind or
squirrel or woodbird, raise into the night their branches robed to the
remotest twig in the matchless lacework of the frost.
But see! Along the hollow, to the left, can be caught a glimpse of
the manor-house, its windows, most of them, aglow with light. A grey,
stately old place it is, in the midst of its woods, eloquent with the
memories of long-past centuries. Royalty has been entertained there in
bygone days, and in the woodland aisles around has echoed merrily the
laughter of many a gay party from the Court, distant only a morning’s
ride. But storm after storm has swept the land since then; that gay
Court’s palace lies a ruin now; and while the race of the humble
peasant still thrives in the manor woods, the race of the manor lord
and the race of the kings themselves of those days have passed from the
earth for ever.
There is no spot in so old a land but has its memories, sad and gay.
Somewhere in these woods, in days still farther gone, a national hero
was betrayed, and on the moorland ridge, a mile away, a king’s army
suffered defeat. But the minister passes on. His errand to-night is
neither to palace nor castle, yet it may be that the simple hearts he
is presently to unite will beat as happily under a lowly roof of thatch
as do those of the gentle owners in their mansion yonder.
By degrees, as he presses on, the path becomes rougher, the trees
deepen the darkness overhead, and hardly a former footstep has left its
trace in the undrifted snow. The solitude might almost be primeval,
so absolute is the silence in these untrodden recesses. The solitary
snapping, once, of a rime-laden branch has only testified amid the
stillness to the intensity of the frost. At last, however, the path
widens somewhat, there is a little clearing and a forsaken lodge, and
beyond, here and there in the open, gleam the scattered lights of the
village. A sequestered spot it is, bowered in summer by the whispering
woods, and in winter buried in the forest solitudes by the swathing
snow.
But there is merriment enough to-night in the little community; and
the frequent ring of laughter from the nearest cottage, as well as
the warm glow of firelight streaming from its threshold and windows,
deep-set under the thatch, tell where the festivities are going
forward. It is the cottage of the bride’s father: all the village has
assembled here to assist in the ceremony, and they are waiting now
for the minister. The laughter subsides as he lifts the latch and
enters, stamping in the doorway to shake the snow from his feet; and
all eyes are turned upon him, as the goodman of the house, a grizzled
forester of sixty winters, hastens forward with a welcome to help
him out of his coat. It is a comfortable scene, the interior of the
low-raftered kitchen, lit up rather by the warm glow of the open fire
than by the candles set on table and window-shelf. By the hearth are
gathered the older folk--the many-wrinkled granny, in comely white
mutch and kerchief; the few matrons, with smoothly-braided hair,
and little ornament, except a well-worn ring or two; and the men in
decent homespun; while farther back are grouped the more youthful
members of the party--broad-shouldered young fellows and merry-eyed
lasses, excited a little by the somewhat infectious inspiration of the
occasion. Everything in the humble apartment is as clean as housewifely
care can make it; not a speck is to be seen on the brown stones of the
floor, and above the black shining chimney-piece the brass candlesticks
glitter like gold. On the snowy dresser, below the well-filled
plate-rack, is piled in profusion the substantial fare which will do
duty later on. Meanwhile, on the white deal table in the middle of the
room is set only the well-worn family Bible.
The minister, with a kindly word, has shaken the hand of the somewhat
embarrassed bridegroom, and stands now, inquiring pleasantly after
granny’s eyesight, by the fire. There is a pause of expectancy, a
hurried messenger or two pass between the rooms, and then the bride, a
handsome young woman of twenty-two or so, is brought in by her mother
from “ben the hoose,” as the only other apartment is called. With a
look of happy pride at the object of his affection, the bridegroom
takes his place by her side at the farther end of the table, and the
minister, glancing round to see that all is ready, opens the Bible.
After a brief but earnest prayer, and the reading of a short passage of
Scripture, the good old man addresses them in a few solemn yet kindly
words. They are taking the most serious step in life; let them look to
Heaven for a blessing upon it. The future may bring them prosperity;
let them see that it does not cool their affection. It may also have
trials in store for them; let these be lightened by being shared
between them. Above all, let them remember to be open-hearted to one
another. Then he asks if they are willing to be wedded “for better or
for worse,” bids them join hands, engages in another most momentous
prayer, and finally declaring them man and wife, with the solemn
injunction, “Whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder,”
ends the short ceremony.
Immediately there is a great stir, shaking of hands with the
bridegroom, and kissing of the bride; the gallant “best man,” somehow,
unwarrantably extending the salutation to the blushing bridesmaid. The
mother sheds a few quiet tears, and granny, by the fire, wakens up to
speak of her own wedding day.
But the proper papers have been signed, and the minister, followed to
the door by the overflowing thanks of the little family, and refusing
all offers of escort, leaves the homely company to its enjoyment--for
the dance will be kept up till a late hour in the morning. The night
air is bracing, after the warmth inside, and, as the sky has cleared a
little by this time, the pathway back through the woods will be better
seen by the silvery sparkle of the frosty stars.