University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

It is impossible for the most vivid imagination,
to conceive the various reports which would probably
have originated from the events just described,
or rather from such fragments of those events
as might have found their way to the village, had
not the whole curiosity of the community been
suddenly diverted to a still more interesting subject.
It had been now for many hours, a matter
beyond doubt, that the wedding of Margaret Weldon
was that evening to be celebrated at the
dwelling of her aunt.

Preparations for the approaching festival, the
inquiry who were invited, who had failed of an
invitation, the probable dress and appearance of
the bride,—were all subjects too painfully and
engrossingly interesting to allow of any long digressions.

At an early hour a large party were assembled
in Mrs. Wilmot's best room, awaiting with anxious
glances, the entrance of the bride. The
room had been arranged in a style of taste and
rural elegance becoming so joyful an occasion; its
walls were hung with festooned wreaths of flowers,
and several large and beautiful bouquets
adorned the mantel-piece—opposite this was an
arched recess, profusely adorned, and as yet unoccupied.

Mrs. Wilmot had a few minutes since welcomed
her last guest, and all was now anxious and silent
expectation, interrupted indeed by an occasional
whispered conjecture of some of the
younger females of the party. All surmises and
queries, however, were now speedily silenced by
the entrance of the bridal train, and the ceremony
and prayers, much longer and more particular
than in these degenerate days, were performed
without interruption or embarrassment. Some
there were, indeed, who hinted at the excessive
paleness of the young bride, kindly hoping that her
choice had not so soon been repented; but our
readers who are acquainted with the circumstances
of her morning ramble, will certainly place
upon it a more charitable construction. We will
pass over the details of the merriment, that now
echoed through the apartment; and indeed the
whole wedding might have been consigned to a
similar oblivion, but for the sake of a singular
circumstance which occurred during its celebration,
forming a theme for fireside meditation for
months and even years afterwards.

In the midst of a confused hum of conversation
and as nearly as could be recollected, just after
the performance of the ceremony, it was suddenly
perceived by some of the less loquacious, that
there was in the company a stranger to whom not
one had been introduced. In a retired corner of
the room sat a female whose appearance was peculiar.
The entire want of ornament in her dress,
while it attracted the attention of some, was to
others the least striking peculiarity in her appearance;
for when her face, at first downcast as if
in mental absence, was raised, they saw a countenance
of strange and indescribable beauty, but

pale and sorrowful, as if the light of young hopes
had gone out there forever, leaving in its stead
high thoughts and holy purposes, but nought of
earth save its deep and tender affections. Such
as were most curious in noticing her dress, discovered,
as the breeze from the window slightly
disarranged the drapery which covered her neck,
that she wore a rich golden necklace. This circumstance
might have been forgotten had not
other incidents afterwards kept it in remembrance.

The low interrogations that now passed from
group to group, instead of satisfying only excited
to a higher point, the prevalent feeling of curiosity.
None could tell who the stranger was, or
whence she came. The curiosity of the company
was gradually tinged with superstition and heightened
to fear. And when some one, in a whisper,
at last interrogated the mistress of the mansion,
her evident evasion of the question by some indefinite
and purposely ambiguous reply, gave no
satisfaction. There was a slight check on the
merriment of the company. The tones of laughter
if no less loud than at first, were less free and
careless, and many a sidelong glance was directed
to the corner occupied by the stranger.

Indeed those who first discovered her presence,
afterwards asserted that at the first glance some
indescribable sensation struck to their hearts;
and it was said that those whose attention was
directed thither, if ever so gay at the moment,
became gradually reserved and gloomy.

At length, the eye of the stranger was lifted
with a new expression. Alice Weldon had just
entered the room, and the illuminated glance of
the lady followed her, as she glided among the

guests in the exuberance of childish happiness.
The thoughts of the more imaginative and nervous
among the observers, testified that there was
surely something mysteriously fascinating in the
smile, with which the object of so much curiosity,
watched every movement of the child, as
if anxious to catch her notice. Presently the
eye of the little one turned towards the corner,
where the stranger sat alone. That gaze
of delight arrested her attention; and, in a
moment, an answering smile played upon her
lip.

It was in vain that the lady who happened
to be nearest the child, sought with a violent
effort to engage her in something else. The
attempt was for a moment successful, but that
strangely winning smile seemed to attract her
with an irresistible influence. With a quick
movement she withdrew her hand from the
grasp that confined it, and in spite of the efforts
made to divert her attention, moved slowly
across the room. The smile deepened on
the lip of the stranger, as the lovely child now
hesitatingly approached her.

“You are a beautiful lady,” said the little
one, pausing at a short distance from her, as if
afraid to advance; “you are the prettiest lady
I have seen to night—shall I come and sit with
you?”

“Ah, come, come, sweet one,” replied the lady,
in a rich and trembling tone, while every feature
kindled with a look of intreaty.

Alice stood for a moment with her hand
in hers, and looked silently upwards on her
countenance. “Are you like Margaret?” she
at last said, with an air of perplexity, turning

at the same moment towards the bride, as if
seeking to institute a comparison between them.
“No, no, it is not Margaret,” she added looking
again at her new friend,—“Who are you
like?”

The stranger replied only by bending to press
the lips of the little girl to hers.

“You must love me as well as Margaret,”
she at length added, in the same subdued
and thrilling tone, “will you not, my precious
one?”

“Shall I love you better?” replied the child,
climbing suddenly into her embrance, and twining
her soft little arms around her, “shall I love you
better than Margaret, a thousand times better?”
and she pressed her lips to those of her new
found friend, until the lady seemed unable to repress
her emotion.

This was the last that was noticed of them.
The entrance of refreshments for a few moments
absorbed the attention, and when curious
eyes were again turned to the corner,
neither Alice nor the mysterious stranger, were
visible. The former, however, soon re-appeared
from a door which opened to the hall, and it
was at once percieved, that she wore on her
fair and rounded neck, the golden chain which
had before been discovered on the neck of the
stranger lady. It was also percieved that, on
her return, she manifested an appearance of
deep melancholy, and seating herself in the
place which the stranger had occupied, scarcely
smiled or spoke during the remainder of the
evening.

The influence of the stranger over the little
orphan, was not confined to the present occasion.

It was thought that a seriousness and unusual
pensiveness of disposition, was ever after discoverable
in her character.

The next morning the good ship Beaver sailed
for Liverpool, and from that time forth, nothing
more was seen or heard of “the Lady of
the Mist.”