University of Virginia Library

39. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTH. [sic]
THE BRIDAL BED.

Soon after midnight, the Bridesmaids led
the Young Wife to the Bridal Chamber.

And after a prayer, which long and full of
unction, seemed to consecrate the harmless
mirth of the marriage festival, the Bridegroom
slipped quietly away, and went up the stairway
toward the Bridal Chamber.

At the threshold he paused, even as his
hand was laid upon the door. He listened —
all was gaiety and uproar below, but where he
stood a silence like death prevailed.

Gently opening the door, he entered the
Bridal Chamber.

It was the largest chamber in Col. Thorberry's
elegant mansion. Rich curtains along
the windows, which opened upon the balcony,
rich carpet upon the floor, and pictures in
glittering frames upon the walls.

Upon a small table, near the centre of the
carpet, stood a lamp, which shed a faint, and
yet voluptuous light around the place.

And in the rays of the light, appeared the
snowy canopy of the Marriage Couch, with
curtains as white and stainless, falling to the
carpet, in long and sweeping folds.

As he beheld the bed, the Bridegroom paused
and pressed his finger to his lips, while his
small eyes, enlarging in their sockets, shone
with a fiery lustre.

There, sheltered within the white curtains
— like a budding flower, within its leaves —
his Bride awaited him.

“Fanny!” he whispered, in an impassioned
tone, calling her by the name which she had
borne from childhood.

She did not answer.

Was she sleeping?

The Preacher stole on tip-toe to the bed,
and laid his hand upon the curtains. They

were closed, and the Bride was concealed
within their tightly gathered folds.

“Fanny!” he breathed her name once more
and listened. His face kindled with a warmth
that gave a singular look of youth and passion
to every feature. His eyes emitted a stream
of magnetic light.

Still no answer was heard from within the
curtains of the marriage bed.

“She has sunk to slumber,” whispered the
Preacher-Bridegroom — “I will gaze upon
her as she sleeps. I will wake her with a
kiss.”

He drew the curtains and looked within.
He did not behold his young wife's face,
for in her slumber she had drawn the coverlet
over her head, but the outlines of her
form were dimly perceptible by the faint
light.

“Poor child! Scared by an unpleasant
dream, she has buried herself in the coverlet.
Let me wake her gently. Yes, let me wake
her with a kiss.”

He slowly raised the coverlet.

And the next instant his face became livid,
he stood paralyzed by the bed, unable to speak
or stir, his lips apart and his eyes projecting
from their sockets.

What was the sight which caused this sudden
and fearful change?

Fanny in her sleep, with her dark hair,
waving in glossy blackness, over her stainless
bosom? No.

Fanny dead — her eyes fixed — her bosom
pulseless — her stiffened hands, folded over
her lifeless yet beautiful form? No.

Let us explain the mystery in a few words.

When the Preacher slowly lifted the coverlet,
a voice very deep and hoarse, and altogether
unlike the mild accents of Fanny, greeted him,
with these remarkable words:

“How air you?”

And the Preacher, in the place of the young
and blooming form of his Bride, beheld a red
face, adorned with white whiskers, and surrounded
by a fur cap. And beneath this red
face, appeared a huge form, clad in a scarlet
over-coat, corduroy trowsers, and boots with
soles half an inch thick.

It needed no second glance to inform the
Bridegroom, that where his Bride should have
been, his old acquaintance, even the giant
Peter was snugly reposing.

It was indeed our old friend, Peter.

There was an affectionate smile upon his
lips, and a jovial twinkle in his eyes.

“How air you?” he repeated, turning his
face toward the Preacher: “How air you,
honey?” and lovingly he spread forth his
brawny arms.

You cannot fail to perceive, that the Preacher
had good reason for his surprise. Braver men
than Jervis, would have been astonished by an
occurrence like this.

“Why don't you speak to me?” cried
Peter, extending his brawny hand, and clenching
the paralyzed wretch by the collar —
“Don't you love me?” Peter displayed his teeth
from ear to ear — “Come to bed honey. It's
late and we'll have to be stirrin' airly in the
mornin'.”

He dragged the Preacher upon the bed,
and impressed upon him, the sad necessity of
silence with these words:

“Jist speak above your breath dear, and —”
and the cold muzzle of a pistol touched the
Preacher's forehead.

And then Peter, drawing from the fathomless
depths of his pockets, a piece of cord,
and certain silken handkerchiefs of various
colours, proceeded to bind the limbs of the
bridegroom, even as he lay upon his marriage
bed.

“Where is my wife?” gasped Jervis.

“Ellen? She was in her grave when I
last heer'd from her. You may have a chance
to meet her soon.”

“You don't mean to kill me?” the poor
wretch shuddered, as he lay upon the bridal
bed.

“Not so loud. Low, very low you must
speak, if you don't want to raise my temper.
Hark now! The folks down stairs are about
retirin' to their beds. The niggers have gone
away from the front of the house. Now if
you'll do me the kindness, jist obey a few directions,
and it 'ill be mighty good for your
wholesome. You hear —”

“I am listening —” murmured Jervis.

“I'm jist a goin' to carry you out o' the
winder and along the balcony. Thar at the
end of the balcony, a ladder is ready, and

near the ladded a half dozen good fellows, on
stout horses. You'll jist have the kindness,
to let yourself be carried off quietly. That's
all. If you make the least noise, I'll be
obliged to —” once more the muzzle of the
pistol touched the forehead of the Preacher.

“I consent,” faltered the Preacher, “only
spare my life.”

Peter bound a black kerchief over his eyes.
Then creeping from the bed, he raised the
blindfolded man in his arms and bore him
through the opened window, out upon the
balcony.

The Preacher felt a strange sinking of the
heart, as he passed the confines of his Bridal
Chamber.

Peter passing along the balcony, descended
a ladder which stood at one extremity, and by
this ladder reached the ground. He found
himself in the centre of a crowd of horsemen,
whose faces were not distinguishable in the
darkness.

“All right?” said a voice — the Preacher
knew it, and muttered to himself the solitary
word: “Lester!”

“Yes — right and snug,” exclaimed Peter,
answering the voice.

“Mount then, and let's be moving,” the
voice was heard again.

“Aye, aye,” said Peter, as holding the
Preacher in his arms, he sprang into the
saddle.

“Forward!” cried the voice again, and
twenty horses thundered over the lawn,
toward the public road.

The Preacher, clasped in the firm embrace
of Peter, could not realize the scene. He
believed himself entangled in the wonders of
a nightmare.

For an hour the horsemen pursued their
way in silence. Every time that the Preacher
attempted to speak, his mouth was closed by
Peter's brawny hand.

“You see, my dear,” Peter whispered,
growing communicative as they dashed along:
“You ought to feel grateful to Charles and me.
We came all the way from Fildelfy arter you.
We arriv' jist afore dark to-night at Choktipaw,
and met Ralph in the woods a little west
of the town. He spoke of a huntin' party did
he not?”

The Preacher uttered a deep groan.

“That child looks green, but he ain't.
Bless your soul, not a bit of it. Do you know
that he had overheer'd some conversation
between you and that Dr. Baldwin whom you
raised from the dead, and consequently he
begin to have some suspicions about you.
But he did not know what to do, or whom to
talk to. He was resolved, howsomdever, to
watch you and the Doctor purty close, and to
keep an especial eye to that tin box. You
take? So jist afore dusk he meets us in the
woods a little west of Choktipaw, and we
soon come to an understandin'. You don't
know who “we” means? Listen, my gospel
brother, and I'll give you a hint. Suppose a
dozen stout boys from Illinois get on your
track, and suppose a dozen boys from Choktipaw
j'ine 'em. What then? The Choktipaw
folks (in the secret) go to your weddin'
while the suckers from Illinois lay their plans
around the house, and make their reckonin' to
steal your wife away fust — and then her
father — and then you!”

Again the Preacher groaned.

“You see Charley wanted to take Fanny
away from the house without raisin' a fuss.
So he waited until the weddin' was over, and
the bride safe in bed, when — d'ye hear, my
friend? When Ralph gits into her room
through the balcony, and has a talk, and a very
important talk it was, with his sister. Arter
that talk, it was all up with you, my dear.
When poor Fan was told by her brother, that
her father wasn't her father, an' that the
minister who married her wasn't a minister
at all — Lord! The poor girl fairly jumped
for joy!”

The Preacher uttered a sound between his
teeth, which very much resembled an oath.

“One reason why Lester didn't seize you
at the weddin' party, was this, my friend.
The Choktipaw folks, whom he acquainted
with your villany, just wished to see for their
own satisfaction, whether or no you would
really go on with your mock marriage. They
saw you married, sat aside o' you at the supper,
and then were convinced, that you was
— exactly what you air!”

“But where are you taking me?” groaned
Jervis, as he was borne rapidly over a road,
which led through a dark forest.

“Wait a little while, and you'll see. Fanny
and Ralph and your Dr. Baldwin, have gone
ahead. They're expectin' us now.”

“But Col. Thorberry will avenge this outrage!”
muttered the Preacher.

“I'll give you a hundred dollars if you'll
go back to Thorberry's arter we're done
with you: that is supposen' you can walk or
ride, arter we're fixed you. Bless your soul,
Thorberry, and all about Choktipaw will
know all about you, to-morrow mornin'. It's
only to spare you the pain o' layin' some
years in jail, that we take you off in this
way, and give you a touch of Justice in the
rough.”