 | CHAPTER XIII. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
“Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones!”
Taming the Shrew.
Elinor was all anxiety to learn the result of the interview;
and Mary Van Alstyne also naturally felt much interest in
the subject, as she, too, was a cousin of William Stanley,
their mothers having been sisters. Elinor soon discovered
that the sailor had borne a much better examination than
either of her friends had expected; he had made no glaring
mistake, and he had answered their questions on some points,
with an accuracy and readiness that was quite startling. He
evidently knew a great deal about the Stanley family, their
house, and the neighbourhood; whoever he was, there could
be no doubt that he had known Mr. Stanley himself, and was
very familiar with the part of the country in which he had
resided. Altogether, the personal resemblance, the hand-writing,
the fact of his being a sailor, the papers he had
shown, the plausible statement he had given, as to his past
movements, and his intimate knowledge of so many facts,
which a stranger could scarcely have known, made up a
combination of circumstances, quite incomprehensible to the
friends at Wyllys-Roof. Still, in spite of so much that
appeared in his favour, Mr. Wyllys declared, that so far as
his own opinion went, he had too many doubts as to this
man's character, to receive him as the son of his friend, upon
the evidence he had thus far laid before them. The circumstances
under which he appeared, were so very suspicious in
every point of view, that the strongest possible evidences of
his identity would be required, to counteract them. The
length of time that had passed since the wreck of the Jefferson,
the long period during which his father's property
had been left in the hands of others, and the doubtful character
brought forward — all these facts united, furnished good
grounds for suspecting something wrong. There were other
points too, upon which Mr. Wyllys had his doubts; although
the general resemblance of this individual to William Stanley,
was sufficient to pass with most people, allowing for the natural
changes produced by time, yet there were some minor personal
traits, which did not correspond with his recollection of
Mr. Stanley's son: the voice appeared to him different in tone;
he was also disposed to believe the claimant shorter and fuller
than William Stanley, in the formation of his body and limbs;
as to this man's gait, which was entirely different from that
of William Stanley, as a boy, nearer observation had increased
Mr. Wyllys's first impression on that subject. On
these particular points, Mrs. Stanley and Hazlehurst were no
judges; for the first had scarcely seen her step-son, the last had
only a child's recollection of him. Nor could Miss Agnes's
opinion have much weight, since she had seldom seen the
boy, during the last years he passed on shore; for, at that
time, she had been much detained at home, by the ill health
of her mother. Hazlehurst had watched the claimant closely,
and the interview had silenced his first misgivings, for he had
been much struck with two things: he had always heard,
whenever the subject of William Stanley's character had
been alluded to before him, that this unfortunate young man
was sullen in temper, and dull in mind. Now, the sailor's
whole expression and manner, in his opinion, had shown too
much cleverness for William Stanley; he had appeared
decidedly quick-witted, and his countenance was certainly
rather good-natured than otherwise. Mr. Wyllys admitted
that Harry's views were just; he was struck with both these
observations; he thought them correct and important. Then
Hazlehurst thought he had seen some signs of intelligence
between Clapp and the sailor once or twice, a mere glance;
he could not be positive, however, since it might have been
his own suspicions. As to the volume of the Spectator, he
volume at Greatwood, only four years ago, but he had since
remembered that his brother had the same edition, and he
might have read the book in Philadelphia; in the mean time
he would try to recall the circumstances more clearly to his
mind; for so long as he had a doubt, he could not swear to
the fact. He knew it was not the octavo edition, at Greatwood,
that he had been reading, for he distinctly remembered
the portrait of Steele in the frontispiece, and Addison's papers
on the Paradise Lost, which he had been reading; that very
portrait, and those papers, were contained in the volume
handed to him by Clapp. Both Mr. Wyllys and Hazlehurst
were gratified to find, that Mrs. Stanley differed from them
less than they had feared. She confessed, that at one moment
her heart had misgiven her, but on looking closely at the
sailor, she thought him less like her husband than she had
expected; and she had been particularly struck by his embarrassment,
when she had asked him to describe the furniture
of the drawing-room at Greatwood, the very last summer
he had been there, for he ought certainly under such circumstances,
to have remembered it as well as herself; he had
looked puzzled, and had glanced at Mr. Clapp, and the
lawyer had immediately broken off the examination. Such
were the opinions of the friends at this stage of the proceedings.
Still it was an alarming truth, that if there were improbabilities,
minor facts, and shades of manner, to strengthen
their doubts, there was, on the other side, a show of evidence,
which might very possibly prove enough to convince a jury.
Hazlehurst had a thousand things to attend to, but he had
decided to wait at Wyllys-Roof until the arrival of Mr.
Ellsworth.
Leaving those most interested in this vexatious affair to
hold long consultations together in Mr. Wyllys's study, we
must now proceed to record a visit which Miss Agnes received
from one of our Longbridge acquaintances, and we
shall therefore join the ladies.
“I am sorry, my dear, that the house is not so quiet as we
could wish, just now,” said Miss Agnes to Jane, one morning,
as she and Elinor were sitting together in the young widow's
room.
“Thank you, Aunt; but it does not disturb me, and I
know it is not to be avoided just now,” said Jane, languidly.
“No, it cannot be helped, with this troublesome business
going on; and we shall have Mrs. Creighton and Mr. Ellsworth
here soon.”
“Pray, do not change your plans on my account. I need
not see any of your friends; I shall scarcely know they are
here,” said Jane, with a deep sigh.
“If it were possible to defer their visit, I should do so;
but situated as we are with Mr. Ellsworth—” added Miss
Wyllys.
“Certainly; do not let me interfere with his coming. I
feel perfectly indifferent as to who comes or goes; I can
never take any more pleasure in society!”
“Here is my aunt Wyllys driving up to the door,” said
Elinor, who was sitting near a window. “Do you feel
equal to seeing her?”
“Oh, no, not to-day, dear,” said Jane in an imploring
voice; and Elinor accordingly remained with her cousin,
while Miss Agnes went down to meet Mrs. George Wyllys.
This lady was still living at Longbridge, although every few
months she talked of leaving the place. Her oldest boy had
just received a midshipman's warrant, to which he was certainly
justly entitled—his father having lost his life in the
public service. The rest of her children were at home; and
rather spoilt and troublesome little people they were.
“How is Jane?” asked Mrs. Wyllys, as she entered the
house.
“Very sad and feeble; but I hope the air here will
strengthen her, after a time.”
“Poor thing!—no wonder she is sad, indeed! So young,
and such an affliction! How is the child?”
“Much better; she is quite playful, and disturbs Jane very
much by asking after her father. What a warm drive you
must have had, Harriet; you had better throw off your hat,
and stay with us until evening.”
“Thank you; I must go home for dinner, and shall not
be able to stay more than half an hour. Is your father in?
I wished to see him, as well as yourself, on business.”
“No, he is not at home; he has gone off some miles, to
look at some workmen who are putting up a new farm-house.”
“I am sorry he is not at home, for I want to ask his opinion.
And yet he must have his hands full just now, with that
vexatious Stanley case. I must say, I think Clapp deserves
to be sent to the tread-mill!”
“Perhaps he does,” replied Miss Wyllys. “It is to be
hoped at least, that he will receive what he deserves, and
nothing more.”
“I hope he will, with all my heart! But as I have not
much time to spare, I must proceed to lay my affairs before
you. Now I really and honestly want your advice, Agnes.”
“You have had it often before,” replied Miss Wyllys,
smiling. “I am quite at your service now,” she added,
seeing her sister-in-law look a little uneasy.
Mrs. Wyllys was silent for a moment.
“I scarcely know where to begin,” she then said; “for
here I am, come to consult you on a subject which you may
think beneath your notice; you are superior to such trifling
matters,” she said, smiling—and then added: “But seriously,
I have too much confidence in your judgment and good
sense, to wish to act without your approbation.”
“What is the point upon which I am to decide?—for you
have not yet told me anything.”
“It is a subject upon which I have been thinking for
some time—several months. What should you say to my
marrying again?” asked Mrs. Wyllys stoutly.
Miss Agnes was amazed. She had known her sister-in-law,
when some years younger, refuse more than one good
remain a widow for life.
“You surprise me, Harriet,” she said; “I had no idea
you thought of marrying again.”
“Certainly, I never thought of taking such a step until
quite lately.'
“And who is the gentleman?” asked Miss Agnes, in some
anxiety.
“I know you will at least agree with me, in thinking that
I have made a prudent choice. The welfare of my children
is indeed my chief consideration. I find, Agnes, that they
require a stronger hand than mine to manage them. Long
before Evert went to sea, he was completely his own master;
there were only two persons who had any influence over
him, one is his grandfather, the other, a gentleman who will,
I suppose, before long, become nearly connected with him.
I frankly acknowledge that I have no control over him myself;
it is a mortifying fact to confess, but my system of
education, though an excellent one in theory, has not succeeded
in practice.”
Because,' thought Miss Agnes, `there is too much theory,
my good sister.' “But you have not yet named the gentleman,”
she added, aloud.
“Oh, I have no doubt of your approving my choice! He
is a most worthy, excellent man—of course, at my time of
life, I shall not make a love-match. Can't you guess the individual—one
of my Longbridge neighbours?”
“From Longbridge,” said Miss Wyllys, not a little surprised.
“Edward Tibbs, perhaps,” she added, smiling. He
was an unmarried man, and one of the Longbridge beaux.
“Oh, no; how can you think me so silly, Agnes! I am
ashamed of you! It is a very different person; the family
are great favourites of your's.”
“One of the Van Hornes?” Mrs. Wyllys shook her head.
“One of the Hubbards?—Is it John Hubbard, the principal
of the new Academy?” inquired Miss Agnes, faintly.
“Do you suppose I would marry a man of two-or-three-and-twenty!”
exclaimed Mrs. Wyllys with indignation. “It
is his uncle; a man against whom there can be no possible
objection—Mr. James Hubbard.”
`Uncle Dozie, of all men!' thought Miss Agnes. `Silent,
sober, sleepy Uncle Dozie. Well, we must be thankful that
it is no worse.'
“Mr. Hubbard is certainly a respectable man, a man of
principles,” she observed aloud. “But everybody looked
upon him as a confirmed old bachelor; I did not suspect
either of you of having any thoughts of marrying,” continued
Miss Agnes, smiling.
“I am sometimes surprised that we should have come to
that conclusion, myself. But it is chiefly for the sake of my
children that I marry; you must know me well enough,
Agnes, to be convinced that I sacrifice myself for them!”
“I wish, indeed, that it may be for their good, Harriet!”
“Thank you; I have no doubt of it. I feel perfect confidence
in Mr. Hubbard; he is a man so much older than
myself, and so much more experienced, that I shall be entirely
guided in future by his counsel and advice.”
Miss Agnes had some difficulty in repressing a smile and
a sigh.
“Of course, I am well aware that many people will think
I am taking a foolish step,” continued Mrs. Wyllys. “Mr.
Hubbard's connexions, are generally not thought agreeable,
perhaps; he has very little property, and no profession. I
am not blinded, you see; but I am very indifferent as to the
opinion of the world in general; I am very independent of
all but my immediate friends, as you well know, Agnes.”
Miss Wyllys was silent.
“In fact, my attention was first fixed upon Mr. Hubbard,
by finding how little he was appreciated and understood by
others; I regretted that I had at first allowed myself to be
guided by general opinion. Now I think it very possible that,
although Mr. Hubbard has been your neighbour for years,
you may have underrated his talents, his strong affections,
and energetic character. I was surprised myself to find,
what a very agreeable companion he is!”
“I have always believed Mr. James Hubbard a man of
kind feelings, as you observe, and a man of good principles;
two important points, certainly.”
“I am glad you do him justice. But you are not aware
perhaps, what a very pleasant companion he is, where he
feels at his ease, and knows that he is understood.”
`That is to say, where he can doze, while another person
thinks and talks for him,' thought Miss Agnes.
“The time is fixed I suppose for the wedding, Harriet?”
she inquired aloud, with a smile.
“Nearly so, I believe. I told Mr. Hubbard that I should
be just as ready to marry him next week, as next year; we
agreed that when two persons of our ages had come to an
understanding, they might as well settle the matter at once.
We shall be married, I fancy, in the morning, in church, with
only two or three friends present. I hope, Agnes, that your
father and yourself will be with me. You know that I
should never have taken this step, if you had not agreed
with me in thinking it for the good of my children.”
“Thank you, Harriet; of course we shall be present, if
you wish it.”
“Certainly I wish it. I shall always look upon you as
my best friends and advisers.”
“Next to Mr. Hubbard, in future,” replied Miss Agnes,
smiling.
“When you know him better, you will confess that he
deserves a high place in my confidence. You have no idea
how much his brother and nieces think of him; but that is
no wonder, for they know his good sense, and his companionable
qualities. He is really a very agreeable companion,
Agnes, for a rational woman; quite a cultivated mind, too.”
Visions of cabbages and turnips rose in Miss Agnes's
Uncle Dozie's name.
“We passed last evening charmingly; I read the Lay of
the Last Minstrel aloud to him, and he seemed to enjoy it
very much,” continued Mrs. Wyllys.
`He took a nap, I suppose,' thought Miss Agnes. “He
ought to be well pleased to have a fair lady read aloud to
him,” she replied, smiling.
“The better I know him, the more satisfied I am with my
choice. I have found a man upon whom I can depend for
support and advice—and one who is at the same time a very
pleasant companion. Do you know, he sometimes reminds
me of our excellent father.”
This was really going too far, in Miss Agnes's opinion;
she quite resented a comparison between Uncle Dozie and
Mr. Wyllys. The widow, however, was too much occupied
with her own affairs, to notice Miss Agnes's expression.
“I find, indeed, that the whole family are more agreeable
than I had supposed; but you rather gave me a prejudice
against them. The young ladies improve on acquaintance,
they are pretty, amiable young women; I have seen them
quite often since we have been near neighbours. Well, I
must leave you, for Mr. Hubbard dines with me to-day. In
the mean time, Agnes, I commit my affairs to your hands.
Since I did not find your father at home, I shall write to him
this evening.”
The ladies parted; and as Mrs. Wyllys passed out of the
room, she met Elinor.
“Good morning, Elinor,” she said; “your aunt has news
for you, which I would tell you myself if I had time:” then
nodding, she left the house, and had soon driven off.
“My dear Aunt, what is this news?” asked Elinor.
Miss Agnes looked a little annoyed, a little mortified, and
a little amused.
When the mystery was explained, Elinor's amazement
was great.
“It is incredible?” she exclaimed. “My Aunt Wyllys
actually going to marry that prosing, napping Mr. Hubbard;
Uncle Dozie!”
“When I remember her husband,” said Miss Agnes, with
feeling, “it does seem incredible; my dear, warm-hearted,
handsome, animated brother George!”
“How extraordinary!” said Elinor, who could do nothing
but exclaim.
“No; not in the least extraordinary,” added Miss Agnes;
“such marriages, dear, seem quite common.”
Mr. Wyllys was not at all astonished at the intelligence.
“I have expected that Harriet would marry, all along;
she has a great many good intentions, and some good qualities;
but I knew she would not remain a widow. It is
rather strange that she should have chosen James Hubbard;
but she might have done worse.”
With these philosophical reflections, Mrs. Wyllys's friends
looked forward to the happy event which was soon to take
place. The very same morning that Miss Agnes was taken
into the confidence of the bride, the friends of the groom also
learned the news, but in a more indirect manner.
The charms of a parterre are daily be-rhymed in verse,
and vaunted in prose, but the beauties of a vegetable garden
seldom meet with the admiration they might claim. If you
talk of beets, people fancy them sliced with pepper and
vinegar; if you mention carrots, they are seen floating in
soup; cabbage figures in the form of cold-slaw, or disguised
under drawn-butter; if you refer to corn, it appears to the
mind's eye wrapt in a napkin to keep it warm, or cut up
with beans in a succatash. Half the people who see these
good things daily spread on the board before them, are only
acquainted with vegetables after they have been mutilated
and disguised by cookery. They would not know the leaf
of a beet from that of the spinach, the green tuft of a carrot
from the delicate sprigs of parsley. Now, a bouquet of roses
and pinks is certainly a very beautiful object, but a collection
in leaf, fruit, and root, such as nature has given them to us,
is a noble sight. So thought Uncle Dozie, at least. The
rich texture and shading of the common cabbage-leaf was
no novelty to him; he had often watched the red, coral-like
veins in the glossy green of the beet; the long, waving leaf
of the maize, with the silky tassels of its ears, were beautiful
in his eyes; and so were the rich, white heads of the cauliflower,
delicate as carved ivory, the feathery tuft of the carrot,
the purple fruit of the egg-plant, and the brilliant scarlet
tomato. He came nearer than most Christians, out of
Weathersfield, to sympathy with the old Egyptians in their
onion-worship.
With such tastes and partialities, Uncle Dozie was generally
to be found in his garden, between the hours of sun-rise
and sun-set; gardening having been his sole occupation for
nearly forty years. His brother, Mr. Joseph Hubbard, having
something to communicate, went there in search of him, on
the morning to which we refer. But Uncle Dozie was not
to be found. The gardener, however, thought that he could
not have gone very far, for he had passed near him not five
minutes before; and he suggested that, perhaps Mr. Hubbard
was going out somewhere, for “he looked kind o' spruce
and drest up.” Mr. Hubbard expected his brother to dine
at home, and thought the man mistaken. In passing an
arbour, however, he caught a glimpse of the individual he
was looking for, and on coming nearer, he found Uncle Dozie,
dressed in a new summer suit, sitting on the arbour seat
taking a nap, while at his feet was a very fine basket of
vegetables, arranged with more than usual care. Unwilling
to disturb him, his brother, who knew that his naps seldom
lasted more than a few minutes at a time, took a turn in the
garden, waiting for him to awake. He had hardly left the
arbour however, before he heard Uncle Dozie moving; turning
in that direction, he was going to join him, when, to his great
astonishment, he saw his brother steal from the arbour, with
two rows of pea-brush.
“James!—I say, James!—Where are you going? Stop
a minute, I want to speak to you!” cried Mr. Joseph Hubbard.
He received no answer.
“James!—Wait a moment for me! Where are you?”
added the merchant; and walking quickly to the pea-rows,
he saw his brother leave them and dexterously make for the
tall Indian-corn. Now Uncle Dozie was not in the least deaf;
and his brother was utterly at a loss to account for his evading
him in the first place, and for his not answering in the second.
He thought the man had lost his senses: he was mistaken,
Uncle Dozie had only lost his heart. Determined not to
give up the chase, still calling the retreating Uncle Dozie,
he pursued him from the pea-rows into the windings of the
corn-hills, across the walk to another growth of peas near
the garden paling. Here, strange to say, in a manner quite
inexplicable to his brother, Uncle Dozie and his vegetables
suddenly disappeared! Mr. Hubbard was completely at
fault: he could scarcely believe that he was in his own
garden, and that it was his own brother James whom he
had been pursuing, and who seemed at that instant to have
vanished from before his eyes—through the fence, he should
have said, had such a thing been possible. Mr. Hubbard
was a resolute man; he determined to sift the matter to the
bottom. Still calling upon the fugitive, he made his way to
the garden paling through the defile of the peas. No one
was there—a broad, open bed lay on either hand, and before
him the fence. At last he observed a foot-print in the earth
near the paling, and a rustling sound beyond. He advanced
and looked over, and to his unspeakable amazement, saw his
brother, James Hubbard, busily engaged there, in collecting
the scattered vegetables which had fallen from his basket.
“Jem!—I have caught you at last, have I! What in the
name of common sense are you about there?”
No reply was made, but Uncle Dozie proceeded to gather
up his cauliflowers, peas and tomatoes, to the best of his
ability.
“Did you fly over the fence, or through it?” asked his
brother, quite surprised.
“Neither one nor the other,” replied Uncle Dozie, sulkily.
“I came through the gate.”
“Gate!—why there never was a gate here!”
“There is one now.”
And so there was; part of the paling had been turned into
a narrow gate.
“Why, who cut this gate, I should like to know?”
“I did.”
“You did, Jem? What for?—What is the use of it?”
“To go through.”
“To go where? It only leads into Mrs. Wyllys's garden.”
Uncle Dozie made no answer.
“What are you doing with those vegetables? I am really
curious to know.”
“Going to carry them down there,” said Uncle Dozie.
“Down where?” repeated Uncle Josie, looking on the
ground strewed with vegetables.
“Over there.”
“Over where?” asked the merchant, raising his eyes towards
a neighbouring barn before him.
“Yonder,” added Uncle Dozie, making a sort of indescribable
nod backward with his head.
“Younder!—In the street do you mean? Are you going
to throw them away?”
“Throw away such a cauliflower as this!” exclaimed
Uncle Dozie, with great indignation.
“What are you going to do with them, them?”
“Carry them to the house there.”
“What house?”
“Mrs. Wyllys's, to be sure,” replied Uncle Dozie, boldly.
“What is the use of carrying vegetables to Mrs. Wyllys?
“Miserable garden — poor, thin soil,” muttered Uncle
Dozie.
“Is it? Well, then, I can understand it; but you might
as well send them by the gardener.”
Uncle Dozie made no reply, but proceeded to arrange his
vegetables in the basket, with an eye to appearances; he had
gathered them all up again, but another object which had
fallen on the grass lay unnoticed.
“What is that—a book?” asked his brother.
Uncle Dozie turned round, saw the volume, picked it up,
and thrust it in his pocket.
“Did you drop it? I didn't know you ever carried a
book about you,” replied his brother, with some surprise.
“What is it?”
“A book of poetry.
“Whose poetry?”
“I am sure I've forgotten,” replied Uncle Dozie, taking
a look askance at the title, as it half-projected from his
pocket. “It's Coleridge's Ancient Mariner,” he added.
“What in the world are you going to do with it?” said
his brother, with increasing surprise.
“I wanted a volume of poetry.”
“You—Jem Hubbard! Why, I thought Yankee-Doodle
was the only poetry you cared for!”
“I don't care for it, but she does.”
“She!—What she?” asked Uncle Josie, with lively curiosity,
but very little tact, it would seem.
“Mrs. Wyllys,” was the laconic reply.
“Oh, Mrs. Wyllys; I told her some time ago that she was
very welcome to any of our books.”
“It isn't one of your books; it's mine; I bought it.”
“It wasn't worth while to buy it, Jem,” said his brother;
“I dare say Emmeline has got it in the house. If Mrs.
Wyllys asked to borrow it, you ought to have taken Emmeline's,
to show off on the centre-table, you know. Our neighbour,
Mrs. Wyllys, seems quite a reader.”
“She doesn't want this to read herself,” observed Uncle
Dozie.
“No?—What does she want it for?”
“She wants me to read it aloud.”
Uncle Josie opened his eyes in mute astonishment. Uncle
Dozie continued, as if to excuse himself for this unusual
offence: “She asked for a favourite volume of mine; but I
hadn't any favourite; so I bought this. It looks pretty, and
the bookseller said it was called a good article.”
“Why, Jem, are you crazy, man!—you going to read
poetry aloud!”
“Why not?” said Uncle Dozie, growing bolder as the
conversation continued, and he finished arranging his basket.
“I believe you are out of your head, Jem; I don't understand
you this morning. What is the meaning of this?—
what are you about?”
“Going to be married,” replied Uncle Dozie, not waiting
for any further questions, but setting off at a brisk step towards
Mrs. Wyllys's door.
Mr. Joseph Hubbard remained looking over the fence in
silent amazement; he could scarcely believe his senses, so
entirely was he taken by surprise. In good sooth, Uncle
Dozie had managed matters very slily, through that little
gate in the garden paling; not a human being had suspected
him. Uncle Josie's doubts were soon entirely removed,
however; he was convinced of the reality of all he had
heard and seen that morning, when he observed his brother
standing on Mrs. Wyllys's steps, and the widow coming out
to receive him, with a degree of elegance in her dress, and
graciousness in her manner, quite perceptible across the
garden: the fair lady admired the vegetables, ordered them
carried into the cellar, and received Coleridge's Ancient
Mariner from Uncle Dozie's hands, while they were still
lover-like to remove any lingering doubts of Uncle Josie.
After the happy couple had entered the house, the merchant
left his station at the paling, and returned to his own solitary
dinner, laughing heartily whenever the morning scene recurred
to him. We have said that Uncle Dozie had managed
his love affairs thus far so slyly, that no one suspected
him; that very afternoon, however, one of the most distinguished
gossips of Longbridge, Mrs. Tibbs's mother, saw
him napping in Mrs. Wyllys's parlour, with a rose-bud in
his button-hole, and the Ancient Mariner in his hand. She
was quite too experienced in her vocation, not to draw her
own conclusions; and a suspicion, once excited, was instantly
communicated to others. The news spread like wild-fire;
and when the evening-bell rang, it had become a confirmed
fact in many houses, that Mrs. Wyllys and Mr. James Huobard
had already been privately married six months.
| CHAPTER XIII. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | |